My summers have withered
Like thirsty flowers,
And I cannot turn back
The unforgiving clock
To a happy hour;
And despite youth
Hitchhiking to destinations gone;
Maturity has not arrived,
And I remain
A stranger in the world.
Young mothers grace
The kind boulevards of my dreams
Strolling the children
I never fathered,
And my hopes have been swallowed
Like a coffin in a grave,
And I have to accept
The mistakes I’ve made
And disappear like a fool
Without posterity
To protect my memories.
I like the metaphor 'youth hitchhiking to destinations gone' but the words 'I remain a stranger in the world' are so wistful and speak of so much alienation. I think you speak for a lot of people in this world Uriah. The feelings you write are so universal. You transform your sadness into the most beautiful verse and remind the rest of us that we're not alone.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Posterity has yet to judge your poetry. The accessment may be much kinder than you imagine it could be. Exceptional write, Uriah. Warm regards, Sandra