The sad truth is
that love does not end
when its dream still lingers
and it is never spent,
if it was really true
and although it flows
like sand through fingers
falling to bits and pieces
it never really decreases
as the thing of you and me
and even treason is forgiven
in the coming and going of seasons
and feelings are indeterminably extended
in the hope of it been mended.
© Gert Strydom
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem