There is still oil left in this lamp
And the wick, though older
Is still alive
With a flame hot enough
To make your fragrance
Enrich my life
This steady glow
Quietly fulfilling
Is our celebration
Of one another
It needs no fluttering moths
Dying in manic frenzy
To redeem itself
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem