Love counts the hours before it's gone.
O he loves me, he loves me not…
"What has he forgot", "have I lost the plot".
Love counts the hours before it's gone.
Every minute is another anniversary
"Love sings songs from my nursery days".
"Here's the church, and here's the steeple"
Today, I kissed the sunset of her rosy blush.
For no other reason than I felt I must.
"Open the door and see all the people".
Secretly - I wiggled my toes, kissed her nose
It's, then she slipped out of her bridal clothes.
"Here's the parson going upstairs,
The devil makes a play for all our woes.
So, we two climbed our very own stairs.
Here am I now, thanking all my prayers.
Love counts the hours before it's all gone.
All those anniversaries packed into fraying nylon.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem