All she wants, are the flowers brought to her...and when they are, and she laces with them - Our hearts will drop and poor and shower - Each their own light for our own day, in her thirteenth hour.
Her weeping is all that has remained - Her tears have feed the forests glaciers and plains.
Her every sob is with out vein - For if they were there would be no rain
... only there can she never answer - As her only reply is the same -
'If all is mine, then what am I - If all are mine, then whose am I? '
Let go - Let love be free.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem