Crashing sea in the warm wind
This will to live on the cliff
Her flight from life is my night
I know the loss of pleasing others
No more pretenses
No more clubs
No more gangs
Make enough money to cope
Reflections of the quiet meadow
Nothing I can do about the wars
Fried minds pushing politics, religion
Watching the news less
Gentle souls I trust
Fame is an idiot, positions masks
Bells ring along the cove
Your hand in mine
Leaving the game for good
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem