I can't recall the story,
I remember it quite well.
And since there is no story,
it's a story I will tell.
It was a dark and stormy night,
the skies were bright and clear,
as we a cask of wine unstopped,
to have a glass of beer.
Silver were the golden hues,
of spring that winter's day,
and when I saw her leaving,
I knew she'd come to stay.
We've grown to loathe each other,
we have a love both fine and rare,
and since she's always with me,
I can't find her anywhere.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem