I tried to concentrate, to be able to compose a prose;
Nothing would come to my bothered mind.
I spent hours lying, trying to fabricate ideas;
But the story of my life came so very blurred.
Nothing came out from my tired pen;
The story still in it's thrill.
I asked myself why that great delay;
But my mind seemed too preoccupied.
Maybe, coz my little heart thinks about you;
My lonely heart longs for you.
My heart wants to see you;
And maybe my heart wants only you.
Oh, heart of mine, be still;
Listen to your beatings but be still.
Let the pages of times pass;
And soon your dreams will come true.
(10/31/04. 8: 40 p.m)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem