As he stands under the old Figtree,
His Leather Jacket Draped over his shoulders
His Hair as grey as ash, shinned with the sunlight
That's peeped through the parting of the trees branches
But still the sorrow in his eyes.
Leaning against a run down bus shelter
Waiting for his future to park in front of his old, unpolished lace up boots.
To forget the past, and to forgive the guilt
To have himself, and himself only
His conscience, lay silent and resting upon his broad shoulder
Not to say a word or peep.
One Snow-white Turtle dove,
Perched On the wooden bench of the shelter,
Looked, Eye to eye.
Said to him self, fly, freedom, the answer.
Where that dove did perch, left a feather, one pearl white feather.
Here is the Future, as he thought, the last soul on.
Disappeared to the back seat.
My Feather, My Freedom
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem