Fog clinging to the limbs of trees
refusing to let go,
the sun shall return, and burn, but
how could the wood ever know -
Hands were made
to hold, and
lest we forget
also to let go -
Who would dare love
what they must lose to death;
the greatest gamble will be
taking your final breath -
Beautiful Smoky, the flow of this poem is really good. And everyone does want a hand to hold.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I like this very much.