Love is kin to cigarettes:
One and you're addicted.
Over time the thing does turn
And scars; so unpredicted.
Fills you up: the lungs do teem;
Of all the pleasure you might sing-
Until the rasping claims your voice.
Never pick, you, up the thing.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Never pick up.... a good advise.... a good thought... it can lead to carcinoma.. one fatal end.... a good write for a great cause.. Rema