They call to
an angry fire,
the elders.
They talk
and walk the heavens
with hard thought.
Earth below them
cracks with sure suffering
and they lament.
It bears not
prccious fruit
but nourishes stones.
One blade of grass,
mirrored by their tears
will build its new beginnings.
So with strength
they weep their tomorrow.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Beautiful Sally, very deep.
Thankyou, Valerie.