Hellos are a funny thing.
They are quick to leave just as they arrive.
The wind has grown sick, healed by the intermost part of the soul.
The greet of a new beginning.
The open arms of a smile, faced by the lack of courage of ears.
Unwilling to speak.
Warm hearted in thought.
An instinct that quickly becomes habit.
The taste of your grin.
The front pockets of things not often said, in fear of rejection.
Left barefoot.
Of all the things I regret not doing.
I am glad that I said hello to an welcoming face
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem