The poem of life;
That stirs in youth's greenest hour,
Like spring-time, quickly
Dissolves into a heap of
Broken phrases, if
It is not coaxed and nurtured
Into being like a
Precious child, with patience and
Understanding. It
Should be filled with subtle flames
Of colour, rhythms
Of the teeming universe
And whispered textures;
Organic, flowing; not forced.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem