I used to reach high, on tiptoes,
Arms sore from stretching,
For the princely type,
The reddest apples on the tree.
I was quite the Cinderella,
Left stranded on the street,
After the last bus had passed,
No Don Quixote in sight.
Then I learned a word,
Which would save my soul.
Nothing can be done,
If it's not meant, or destined, to be.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Then I learned a word, Which would save my soul. Nothing can be done, If it's not meant, or destined, to be. Is that word love?