The window has little to offer;
Trees still, long expansive
meadows pensive; sky dropping
Into pale pink.
Dusk deepens its shadows over
mind, clogged with straw piles
to let a ray of light in;
Eye scanning the sunbeam's tip
for a pot of gold.
Every metropolis abuzz
with spreading software,
an indomitable fairie;
Youth, throbbing like moths,
ready to crash into the narrowing
corridor of light; Bruises matter
less than the scramble.
For a pot of gold on the sunbeam's tip.
"Here and now" is the cry
in desolate alleys;
Portals, wedged on the horns
of financiers, landlords itching
for a harvest of rent.
The market's foul, noxious breath
decimating mind;
For a pot of gold on the sunbeam's tip.
The old gawking at the corridor,
the young tetchy.
Sun's rays frozen in twilight.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
k depends upon its shadows over.....sun's rays frozen in twilight.......wonderful poem shared on really.