A little thing that blossoms in our hearts
Pure new and full of bliss
Like a flower till it withers away
The same flower never blooms again
And no one remembers it
But the empty stalk that quietly decays
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A refined poetic imagination, P. M. You may like to read my poem, Love And Iust. Thank you.