Picking off the black leaves.
The debris I do not need
Still the daily routine,
Chastens in the eves.
Amongst the black leaves,
You never saw all I could be
Shut your eyes.
Laying down on the wild sleeve
Of my heart.
The black leaves.
Pick them off and still they fall.
Brown, gold and awful cold.
Phone another waiting soul.
Listen to the yawning hole
That you left,
Amidst the black leaves,
I was always more than
You wanted to see.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I'm unsure whether I gather the right meaning, but to me, this is like someone trying desperately to remove the bad and leave the good, but it's a never ending task in life and you never quite keep up. In any event, whether my whacked interpretation works or not, I very much enjoyed the language of this poem and its construction. Peace, L&T