A rose could not have smelled as sweet
as debonair as simple be;
Her deep brown eyes would color my world
where black and white was all I’d see.
A man of labour could not win
the battles he had won for me;
His arms bared anvils for a sleeve
a heart as stout, its blood ran free.
Dear mother, Dear father, what pleasures have
you’ve brought to one who’s just a boy;
Both raised me well, thy wisdom speaks
its volumes gather, oh what joy.
Whatever I’d find, I’d lose each day
but when I’m lost, you’d map the way
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem