Sometimes you wonder why you wrote those letters,
In the dark of that stumble burning midnight flickers,
When all they were to be consigned to flames of disdain
When the heart poured spoil, burnt paper and ash in pain
Incinerated in frost fire feels so cold, lost to reason of hope and hold
These lines that I drew were the paths I would dream
The flames that you lit were a pyre that you impelled
The trance of my words lost to wilderness, erased echoes
In the winds of time, as this cold ash is blown away
Some cinders concealed, some sparks remain!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem