A poem simply sounds the bell, of that which words could never tell.


Ours will be
No shooting star
To burn up soon,
Without a trace,
Or like the moon
That shines afar,
No smile upon her face,
But as the sun
So warm, so bright,
Our days are spun
With rays of light,
Threads of fire,
Woven gold,
Young love's desire
While hearts grow old.

No comments: