She cries a bit too little,
I feel a bit too late.
I'll chalk it up to just bad luck,
for no belief in fate.
If she weren't born of pretty,
and I weren't born of sin.
I stumble pass her ugliness,
to never sin again.
In heat between the liars,
that lights our way to hell.
I know of a but a single fate,
that only death will tell.
This right of wrong,
upon my slate.
She cries a bit too little,
I feel and too late...
great lines in this one Saint O...it flows easily and rolls off the tongue...great work
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Awesome poem Saint! Delightfully executed! ! Best regards, *10*! ! Friend Thad