Your red beauty,
taken by the wind.
You don't go far,
the wind hates you,
the wind drops you,
You precious beatuy stays there,
untouched, unloved.
The passing of time,
kills your soul,
and you rot,
and die.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
An interesting way to look at apples Justin. I love poems that make you see an everyday occurence in a different light. Very nice. Sincerely, Mary