To Rapha, King and Author,
It's me again, in a letter whose content You hold patent.
My heart-professed King, these are my self-confessed sins.
Here on my knees, feeling so blue, I recount the deeds of a heart, loving so true.
These trees of green- they hide stories of a life unseen; and these eyes of pain; tales of a love gone pale.
I've been sung in songs I do not know, woven into worlds I do not own.
Snow grows not; I know. But the years grow old; I've been told- not in thunder and anger.
No, not in shutters that captures; but in stories and mysteries whose history I dare to re-live.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem