I once wrote something, a tribute.
Submitted, from a time, less mute.
now disappeared, forget, should you?
What could I do?
Roses, sanguine true,
Violets, violent hue.
Back, towards memory go.
Return, to I don't know.
Move, to greener pastures.
Flame, poetic rapture.
From purity of thought, received,
I knew my maker, and him, me.
Those whispered words, so silently,
Bespoke friends, of eternity.
Shall I write anew?
Roses, ever few,
Violets, silent grew.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem