How many stories are told,
Without splitting of the lips,
Showing of the perfect teeth,
Hands are not lifted up,
To hug and kiss with warmth,
The soft whip of the breeze,
Strike the soul with mild shiver,
The body just gets warmed up,
When the eyes are met,
Thousands of tales are exchanged,
Not the signs of tears and sorrow,
But the gossip of natures bestow,
When the new rain drops slowly,
The door of the lonely heart opens,
The air carries the smell of the soil,
When the eyes are met without regrets,
To tell the anecdotal almanac,
In the hearts of people who are in love.
New rain, yes! ! ! Refreshing to the soul. Thank you for a lovely poem.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
lovely poem.liked the line, how many stories are told without splitting the lips.hands are not lifted up to hug and kiss with warmth.weldone.