It is fate alone, that manages our move,
In each route march, with privet muse,
On these dreams, wills or pose,
Which everyone's choice, in his close?
It is said, that our eyes,
Look and takes, pictures and sights,
From our hearts, with no connection to fate,
But only, to our personal date!
Is it love? what do you think?
Or just a paint, a point, a pink?
Or maybe a reason, that God knows,
In these moments, of our life cause?
I really think, that it all lies
In our power to find the ties,
And no one, can explain in full,
The all things, overruled, in cool!
So, time will come and go,
Yesterday, today, tomorrow, and so on,
And we will continue, to fly as a dove,
With dreams and feelings, for those we love!
Is it real love, in all that,
Or just, the mysterious fate?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem