I write on the scroll of time,
the ink leaving its mark,
across the weathered parchment,
that has seen so many seasons,
and lies moist at places,
damp; like tears,
that once satisfied,
the parched texture.
Some of the ink leaves blotches,
making a mess,
while some words, once wrote,
become illegible,
but every word,
leaves behind its mark,
and even when the ink dries away,
and the scribe drops his quill,
the scroll is rolled up,
treasuring all the tales,
interweaved by the words,
locking them inside,
and the parchment is sealed forever!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem