I oft feign sleep till they are gone
It is not I love them less
Than the silence of gray morning
The chime of clock and peep of watch
Even errant mosquitoe
These are the distractions
Life itself is the distraction.
The paradox is that in the abhorred silence
We can be made whole
If love is present in the walls
Even God can be found beyond them.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Beautiful title and the content of your eloquent poem does not disappoint, Ten without hesitation. Warm regards, Sandra