The conscience hold the memories by the day that holds time.
The tears crumble slowly by love demise.
The wave of her emotions is like perfume to the bones.
The scars on her knees hold the keys to the soil.
Arise, a rose that blossoms the core to her soul.
By: M.W. Styner, Jr.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem