What are we?
but flowers in a field.
passing a quick glance,
nothing more.
But one passses,
and slows with a stare.
inhales its beauty.
only this.
to plant later,
or grow in a vase,
a flower recognized,
for its beauty.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
a nice methapor of life cycle... Best Regards, Ency Bearis