The cracked cobblestone memories, are heavy with time.
As are the wrinkles, on my once young face.
Carved by the years, burned by the sun, barren is the vine.
Cold fingers now reap the harvest, of this empty place.
Gone are the flowers of spring, from my mind.
Drowned by the water of pain's cold everlasting embrace.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem