Flowing from the poets pen,
These words fly,
They stick to paper,
Just stains or something more?
From pain, from joy,
From loss, from sorrow,
From ligth, from shade,
From all the uphill climbs,
These verses grafted,
From all those things,
Which we call life.
All the laughs,
All the cries,
Written down by poets pen,
Just stains on the paper,
Or something more?
Every day poet plants,
New seeds on those fields of white,
Some may call them stains,
But I say pearls of life they are.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A great poem, the heart and soul can always be found in poetry.