One might think of it as something to hunt down.
One may part from it too sun before dawn.
One may trace the start too many years later.
One may find it only in other peoples care.
One may linger thinking and deny its’ moment power.
One may hope in vain that its a constant.
One may put some hopes while it’s slowly sleeping.
One may find it as a bliss and start weeping.
One may never loose it but meet it later.
One may pas it on to all that crave for it.
One should try to grow it as the trees grow tall and wise.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem