It pulses, it pounds, it fills your mind
like cascading falls on mountainsides.
It carves, it cuts, it moves debris,
transforming souls too scared to lead.
It wombs from Hell’s own burning spit,
transcending earthly malcontents.
Its strength like wind can pad the fall
and cut the yoke on Satan’s thrall.
It is FAITH.
It lifts the living from fields of death;
it strengthens the spirit; it lets the mind rest.
It rekindles the flame dampened by trial;
it affords the runner the closing mile.
It feeds expectations of finding the cure;
it torments the devil that tricks the unsure.
It scaffolds the weak; it brings crowds to their feet.
It trumpets the voices of the small and the meek.
It is HOPE
It pains, it joys, it binds the heart,
it breeds forgiveness when torn apart.
It consoles the aged; it rears the young;
it feeds and cares for those with none.
Its light is seen among the blind;
its voice is heard in deafish minds.
Its grasp is strong when nourished well;
it sees you through when all else fails.
It is LOVE.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
it is love, love is nectar, fine writing.