Books may man burn, from ink may man learn,
Or write the song be it sweet, cause no harm or in tune.
So much to know and discern it not, 'affability is it's goal.
New are old worlds,
through the eyes of a child, thus is 'wisdom, retold,
Counsel the wise, 'when sheep, grow to bold:
Thy open mind, 'Moore years, is my checkered tongue,
Thine keeper shall my/her spirits humor, high strung.
To act the court jester, to say what is true,
And thine are kind eyes, where ever i roam.
and burn not the bridge, 'that leads us all home.
Thus as we dance across each life's long stage
Following the wise some wear orange, i am told.
Where they come from us, every race, every age.
And, beings are acorns planted... thinking ahead,
your children to know, and 'run and grow, 'now off
Unchained in the free yellow sun flower, Van Gogh.
r.l.s.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem