I’ve never whispered much about my life
Nor have I offered up this veiled soul
To anyone, save maybe once, a love
With eyes like burning coal
But oh this hate, that sad and sullen tear
That never once did find a way to cry
That searches for a way in which to flee
From out behind that fire eye
It wasn’t I that opened up the curse
But other storms that never quite sat still
And even though the birds sing that it’s over
I doubt you ever will
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
To give one's self away in words is the greatest gift of all. Excellent write, Ben. Kindest regards, Sandra