Love, what is it?
Love is but a story,
Ripe with never ending glory,
Though love is a disease,
Killing ever slowly without ease,
It pains the heavy heart,
With a sorrow-tipped dart,
For when the loves ceases and dies,
Your heart, releases helpless cries,
And without that love,
Thou must look above,
For the desinty of eternal rest,
Is only for the best
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem