These joys blaze, with a distant residue
A fringe of false, like a tale-tale stain
Or blight of disease, still only a blemish
Through which light can trickle,
Enough to amaze.
These passions flare, like a sunlit virus
Lights up a wandering world of mold,
Like the dead spoil days, with only their shadow
And the way pain plods,
While warmth grows cold.
The old grow older, just like a story
Grows stale with retelling, too many times
And you never realize how tiresome it's getting,
Till you've heard it too often-
It takes just one time.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Patti you are a true artist to be able to describe apathy in that way. The way of the extremely jaded journey of a life. Such a remarkable mind. Thank you for putting in down so clearly......... Jim Troy