Life is not what we make, friends, achievements, memories, and death.
It's those efforts and pain and those struggles where it lies beneath,
And those rest are just too common, where's there any shibboleth?
Said one day to me a withered leaf from the garden of Lizbeth.
Copyright ©️ - A Junior Stylers.
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Autor:
A Junior Stylers (
Offline) - Publicado: 19 de mayo de 2026 a las 15:51
- Comentario del autor sobre el poema: My new poem. Published on 20 may 2026.
- Categoría: Naturaleza
- Lecturas: 14
- Usuarios favoritos de este poema: ElidethAbreu, Mauro Enrique Lopez Z., Pedro Novoa Pavon Novoa
Offline)
Comentarios2
Thank you Junior.
A beautiful reflection: perhaps meaning is not found in comfort or success, but in the silent battles that shape the soul.
So long
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