My past has became raisin,
Once it was pulpy grapes,
Sweet and sour mixed; dried,
Now seems so tasty; my pride,
I am enjoying with yesteryear's pain,
Enough it gave to me, made me human,
My poems are what; that's the gain,
I look back and write- past my lumen,
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Nostalgia I guess, but let me tell you, your past makes you write great poems