A poem is a breath,
soft upon the lips of night,
a whisper caught in stars,
a flame that flickers bright.
It lives between the lines,
where silence dares to speak,
in echoes of a lover's sigh,
in tears that kiss the cheek.
A poem is a rose,
its petals brushed with dew,
fragile as a fleeting dream,
yet deep, and wild, and true.
It's born from longing's ache,
from joy that swells the sea,
from every trembling pulse of love,
that beats so endlessly.
It's where the soul finds voice,
where beauty learns to sing,
a poem is the heart set free,
and every wondrous thing.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem