Transported from long, high, and rocky roads
Woven along by crafty hands of time
Without close regard to its heavy loads
Trying to whistle simple sounds of chime
Ever aware of its changing buyers
Whose decaying limited goods abound
And even silence cannot make a sound
So, here it goes wrapping itchy layers
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
hmmm....wow....like how did u think of this.......well penned....