Deflower Poem by nimal dunuhinga
Deflower
Let us
wither
in our
remote village
And listen my old florist,
Your fingers are rough
As Blacksmith's
And it's really painful.
We have no intention
to exhilarate in your town showcases.
Village flowers belong to villagers
And not to cruel hands?
[You give but little when you give of your possessions.It is when you give of your heart that you truly give.-Unknown]
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/25/2024 1:08:29 AM # 1.0.0.1119
