Hands wrapped clumsily around youthful waists
Eyes twinkling, lips tremble uncertain
Fingertips twirling sun drenched strands around
Hips are weaving back and then forth again
Fading and fleeting sketches in my mind
Which were once carved firm in ice cold granite
Now eroding smooth, as clocks hands beating
Quickening waves falling harsher with time
Sand flows evenly through outstretched fingers
And your painting’s canvas slowly decays
Eye’s harvest moons try pulling tides ashore
But your name written in sand is erased
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
There are parts of this I understand clearly. But the images jump from one form to another and break the train of thought. This is unfortunate because the writing was just fine. As was the structure. GW62