Like a Lonely Flower,
I'll stand and I will wait,
for you.
Seeing others getting picked,
does not bother me.
Because they are held by hands,
that are not as soft and caring
as your caressing touch.
Those flowers will wither,
but I will remain.
Standing alone.
Until you will come, and pick me.
Then you will wither me,
you will kill me.
Will you be worth it?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem