death, some mystic mist
that cloud the eyes
of grandmothers and fathers.....
When Jesus collects their spirit
and fly away with them with closed eyes
that they come and stay
in the heart of every little child
a comfort tale for the Aspen boy that believes
in Santa Claus and the easter bunny too
between stroke lights of flares and bullet tracers....
the sierra leone boy ponders missionary promises
and says...
then God is working himself to a standstill in
my place...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem