Sometimes our memory itches
Scratching scatters it even more
Almost as a thorn in bitter Winter
'Rash' as it was, once before
Flushed in it's always hurry
It's haste makes for a quickened waste
Total upheaval with it's nasty bumps
Principals of which loving memory 'tis made?
By, Theodora Onken
February 12,2013
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem