A love has light one time in this display,
A drive in one such gift will course through mud,
Although my art does guess correct, allay
The man who sees my art when it’s humid!
Love hurts, love whines tomorrow, so well now,
To gift the boy who loves is fine and slow,
My arts define a tree that works from bough
To bough, from work to deed and afterglow.
Love shines, love hurts, when bikes are wheels of race,
So say and may I live to see the tale
Of works that fold, of joy that carries grace,
So that is fine when art is sold-detail.
My love is work, it speeds and sorts in sight
Of this design, the real distant delight.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem