This is an old gem that I found while cleaning my room the other day – A poem written (I’m guessing) by my Dad called “Life”.
“We do not see the life that lives,
we only see the forms it gives.
We do not see the soul that wakes,
we only see the course it takes.
And yet we know that life is here.
To regulate the day and year,
To register through joy & pain,
To take the loss & count the gain.”
In his own Handwriting:
P.S. There’s a name scribbled on top in a different handwriting. It spells “M. Borha”. I don’t know if this was presented to that person or was composed (not written, obviously, because the handwriting is my Dad’s) by that person. If you are that person, enjoy reminiscing this.