I never liked to ask my father why
He stood each morning looking out until
The postman came to bring the usual bill
Or circular. He knew, and so did I,
There couldn't be an adequate reply;
No explanation for the daily thrill
Of unvoiced expectation that would still
Be with him when he died. And now it's my
Inheritance. Each day I, too, await
I know not what. Each morning offers scope
For untold possibilities. Though Fate
May bring me bills, and finances can't cope,
Tomorrow waits: I can anticipate.
For what can quench the deathless gift of hope?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A truly great poem. Read mine - Indebted - Adeline