He is every color but is not a rainbow.
It smells like fresh rain on the gray pavement.
It tastes like cinnamon apple pie with sugar on top.
It sounds like a children's choir in a seashell.
It sounds like labored breathing after a 'run.'
It feels like the sun's arms are wrapped around me.
It feels like America as Christopher Columbus arrives.
…
He was every color except the elusive rainbow I had wanted.
Like a sad rain on a gray pavement,
Apple pie without whipped cream.
I fear the sound of children in his seashell
And his labored breathing after running miles along shore
I'd have left him if it weren't for his arms,
Like the sun's wrapped around me.
However sorry or repentant, America could not undo her discovery.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem