Soaring sore
roaring high,
if not heeded
in proper degree,
becomes a conflict
of consorted friction.
Conflicts inflict
an itchy feeling
keeping your
solitary soul
in scowling pain
of sultry suffocation.
Wounds of woes
winning your
whims willfully
prank you
a prey of pinches.
Screaming for
consoling comforts
by the soared soul
makes minds screeching.
A fresh gust of wind
eager to extinguish
the ambush of anguish
just waits for
your soared soul
to be in alacrity.
Just allow it to reach
labyrinth layer
with a jostled jolt.
Keeping forlorn mind
in a mental manor
with wide openings,
freshness floods through,
windy gush would rush
your rusted woes
washed away.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem