Each heart holds a book of memories,
Whose pages are filled haphazardly
By a whimsical writer
Whose name is Time.
In the ink of pain, often he dips his quill
Scribbles trivialities with the scrawl of innocence;
Paints pretty pictures in colors of laughter
Blotting some with unshed tears.
Time himself gradually erases the image
A few, effortlessly, others, with perseverance,
But some lines refuse to surrender.
From prying eyes this book is safe;
It cannot be understood or misunderstood
By those who have naught to do with it.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem