A blossom in the sun,
a budding growing singularity,
tended everyday with care,
soon to be chosen, and
savored as a fine wine,
an inebriating liquid yearning
to overflow.
Then, at its peak, overlooked -
its essence never to be tasted,
withheld from parched lips,
left to become a raisin.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A refined poetic imagination, Pritisha Lobo. You may like to read my poem, Love And Lust. Thank you.