Written cards through the years, telling stories of age and
conflict.
Holding onto all of them so as not to let them drift into a
forsaken land where they would never be seen again.
Suffering and being a part of another time, watching every
moment as they coincide with thoughts and senses being
brought into pockets of imagination on railways of beautiful
ancestry.
Nothing left behind, satisfactory beginnings having their
final essences remembered with words set into many poems.
Loving senses that are always taking me into sensitive areas
of intellect, where no one else can ever be a part of them.
So intact, so perfect, all in the entirety of this unwholesome
time in life.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Loving senses that are always taking me into sensitive areas of intellect, where no one else can ever be a part of them. Beautiful lines