As the rain falls and hits his hands like blood,
Shivers that feel like thorns roll up and down
My spine. Waiting... waiting for the flood...
I am worried that I look like a clown,
His hand touches my cheek and moves it towards him,
Water drips down are faces like the wax of
A candle. Stars are bright and the sky dim,
Yet the night is young, there is still love.
Winning his heart as i am loosing mine,
Tumbling through miles of thorn bushes
Trying to find the perfect time.
Loving every minute of the sweet taste,
The heart turns sweet to sour, my heart is crushed,
He moves my face towards his and are cheeks brush.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem