Where I live grows a tree,
It has seen eons, and is infinite,
But the moss has grown,
And the borish brown of age
And experience, extinguish,
Even know,
The differences it has lived with,
Touched by few, my hand connects,
With the rough brown, scarred skin.
Her hand, of late, felt old.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem