In this book of life we’re given at birth
Its pages blank, awaits verses of worth
Experiences drip upon every page displayed
Love, is but a word conveyed
Lessons learned and lessons taught
The ink of fate swirls words of thought
Hopes and dreams throughout life’s parade
Love, is but a word conveyed
Pages flow from chapter to next
Haphazardly categorized, arbitrarily indexed
And as each chapter becomes worn and frayed
Love, is but a word conveyed
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I like the poem and wish readers to read it with the following poem.: Book of Life The book published when the costs were low A child born of a happy wedding. It was a cheap paperback edition Third in the line preceding two more. Title page neat, handy with pleasing appearance Healthy, active, sober and modest. A run-of-the mill social novel sans sensational passages Cultured, devoid of violence and vulgarity. Printing indifferent pages dog-eared and blurred Uncared for, yet doggedly pursued reading hard. Theme gripping movement slow but steady. Crossing sixty encounters road blocks insurmountable. When anxious to reach the happy ending Speed breakers emerge off-spring accusing obstruct passage. Readers baffled, perhaps author perplexed (bungled) Unable to close the narrative finds unnatural ending inauspicious. The style and language dissipate grip loosens Wavering, the author blamed for erratic writing. Oh! book! ending lost in torn pages Life ends without the knowledge of what happens to its creation.