THERES a beaty in love,
so simple and complete,
and we wear it in our
eyes, and body, and our
rolled up sleave.
THERES a strangness to
it, like a empty fist,
then it reaches out,
and takes hold of air,
but in this air, is
the meaning of you,
they and me.
THE soldiers stand,
the beaty fades, the
roses are cut, and
the thorns start
to feed, still, these
thorns protect the
beaty, and becouse of
this, love, only love
becomes the king.
david...well written, my friend..smooth flux, tight construction...warmheart theme expressed finely.solid work''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''FRANK
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Awe-struck the poet, this is mind blowing, I love it! Love Duncan x