The morning air, the freshest of all,
The chirping birds, the melodious of all.
Dews form on lawns and the sky paints blue.
But then life asks for its just dues.
Trading talents between the lights,
Resting on, between the nights.
Caught in the midst of routine cycles,
Scripting a life tale, through these circles.
At the end of the written tales,
Either of two tales must prevail-
A destiny birthed, or a rueful gathering.
A contrast of stories in the making,
As God's oasis of breaths,
Still hovers on life's full depths,
To inhale and live seems the easier.
But to inspire and birth destiny proves the wiser.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem