The Passenger Of Desire
Help me tell a soul that is so sad about a desire,
Being patience with the dawn needs to be acquire,
By that hurling act of harmattan suspire,
Which yellow leaves grumbling about haywire,
If its tiny soul sparks indeed, O! wildfire,
And all nothing to sprout in your entire,
For one may be sad about a direness and perspire,
Seek with hope to transpire.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem