I'd settle for second best.
Placed with a pattern grown tired
of the usually kept.
There was a time where we
went ahead of ourselves.
Yet moved too far we found less
than the sweet solace of the second kept.
Rarely like an earned merit,
my mallet wept the shores of someone
doubtful to an end.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem