even stone shudders,
groans and cracks...
shifting on it's axis,
changing!
squirrels find erections,
and name them trees...
homes that reach to infinity,
beds fulls of nuts!
only people build houses
out of things dead...
feeling safe in the numbness
of walls that cant touch!
ah! but birds build nests
out of straw discarded...
waiting for angels to fill their wings
with stardust and magic!
and if god created breasts,
rainbows, and sunsets...
then rainbows and sunsets
were an afterthought!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
We humans tend to like having dead things, just to make us feel better. When in fact we don't even need most of what we have. a great poem.