Life is a delicate flame,
Touch to much, can you feel the pain?
But let it be? The flame spreads untamed and free,
A gentle touch, with one set of hands is the key,
We each hold our own flames, yours is yours to hold,
Life-flames can't be duplicated, bought or sold.
And when your flame dies out, it is not the end,
For that last spark can be used again and again.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
'And when your flame dies out, it is not the end, For that last spark can be used again and again.' A very meaningful thought. I wonder how you could think so deep, being so young at age!