Dusted off a yellow scrap
From the depth of time,
A line scribbled,
Each letter dipped in raw blood,
That's when I was mad.
Infatuation, they call it,
Feelings that pass of
When maturity beheads emotions,
Foolishness of youth
Flies away on wings of calculations!
After caressing the parchment,
I put it back to its own time,
Because it doesn't belong to now,
The first flutter of heart,
A flimsy fragile impractical thing,
A wound I still carry,
Falling and failing in first love!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I enjoyed this very much. Thanks a lot.