Broken, and the children are moving home now
Like snails through a forest ruined
By fire: and someone is shouting,
And someone is pointing out,
But gold hangs in the trees: at first it looks like
Serpents hanging there,
But it is some other tale- infatuated and fanciful;
And the crowds gather and dress up and go to
Dances:
It almost feels alright to believe again, that your
Loved ones are coming home,
And even if they never make it there, at least they
Are thinking of you.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem