Quite of short story,
Thee with imaginary crave;
Lie belongs to the blee worry,
And truth belongs to the brave.
Maturity removes poltron,
Immaturity plea for cosy;
Ethinicity moves betraying forlorn,
Without caring for nosy.
Concernity makes the life slow,
Bypath curiousity makes it fast;
Dwindle time takes a blow,
But teaches at the minute last.
Waves of light reach the house,
Winds of dark get the swipe;
House happens home by the sopuse,
When arranged with the hype.
Early to bed early to rise,
Makes the stress and tensions to ease;
Setting in the parent's shed,
Makes the desires to get lease.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem