Flowers on a cradle
Lilies on a grave;
Every lived soul
Becomes a slave,
To the love we want,
And the dying we get -
Life is rudimentary rumors
And salient storms;
It's an unfinished life
In so many forms,
All are stories we hear from afar,
Rumors, of a Land,where lives no regret -
truly the greatest mystery, that we won't solve until that fateful day.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
i have never understood why we fear that for which our souls yearn! great poem.