They would be mistaken who in thinking
That the poem is but a form of sweet conjecture,
Knowing not the source of its creation
Is far from the sweetness quite conveyed.
For in truth each line is drawn without
By blood so tempered in the inner fire
Of passions that lie deep within each soul,
Of broken lives and hidden hopes unpaid.
And as one who inward burns with such a madness,
Yet I hope that they will still be seen,
That one with such a sadness will return,
To hear my voice, and thus be sweetly stayed.
CBB Aug 2011
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Colin you nailed this one