The soft palms with hundred brown scars
Carried the dried red lotus, ready to fall
After being crushed in her hands.
Every tear that fell from the reservoir of soul
Glided off the skin, craving to adhere to it
But as nothing stays forever, it had to fall.
There was no stain of the tear, but just the touch
The light breeze that caressed her tresses
And made her beautiful soft dress dance in pain,
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem