I’m in my late thirties now and in all these years I have never felt loved.
Which has me now asking the question when will I be loved?
Will I be loved before all my hair turns completely grey?
Will I be loved before the sun sets this very day?
When will I be loved?
Will I be loved while I can still remember what love means?
Will I be loved tonight while I dream?
When will I be loved?
At times love has seemed close enough that I could reach out and grab it, but as I reached I realized love was not as close as it seemed.
Love is my white whale and just like Ahab the chase is driving me mad.
When will I be loved?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Love is a stranger. He comes and goes. He has his own rules when he will come and go. And he changes his rules to his own discretion. Often times Love comes when we aren't looking for him.