I never knew you thought of love the same way.
The plume apple juice is sour to the tongue,
So I have no feeling to share with you in the grave.
The early May roses shield off their leaves for us.
I never knew the seed we both planted
Have grown and riped, the fruits are good to eat,
Although all fruits have a blossoming season,
And time for them to rot like corps in the field.
This heart isn't meant for man to choose and pick
But for death the reaper, so we bear the grief.
We are all beggars, hence we strive for heartbeat,
For man cannot decide how long to live.
This way, that way and every way is okay
For blooming love, unlike roses, to ripe in May
There is time for everything. I will keep saying that the ideal of writing poetry and analyzing it establishes the authenticity of the authorship. Although I'm fifteen years of age, my knowledge in poetry is ideal because it is deeply in the work of ancient writers.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A deep and meditative and excellent piece. You're really inspiring, and your poetry deserves my 10+