i am impossible,
though you do not say it,
i am simply expecting too much
from love,
seeking it from those young grass
still coping up with the
beauty of spring time.
you tell me, bud as you are,
nothing to boast for a flower
in the month of May,
be realistic sir,
face the books, recall the
tragedies,
you will only be loved
for the money.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Beauty of spring time, good write