The sound of golf balls clicking brings me joy.
The ball is flying like a soaring bird.
Yet walking hours throughout the burning course.
Too soon these days of golf come to an end.
The practice needed, is it worth the time?
Hit after hit the fun is drying up.
Depressing saying golf is not too fun.
Now this sport is not worth my precious time.
But yet when I remember our fun times.
The beauty of the nature we play on.
The beauty of the tune birds always sing
Quite short the season, precious is its span.
This sport is like a missing puzzle piece.
This is a segment of my mind and soul.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I loves this poem, I can relate