We live with a scar, unarguably to reveal a tale.
And out of no crabs wit, but our past, we bear stymie.
Once stood here a little home.
A cottage that nursed us at bosom.
Those faggots behind wer once the mother tree of this valley,
around which we played.
Around which i drew today.
There onced mother nocked me
for pocking an elderly conversation.
These scraps were once the mud and tatch of the home.
In a flash of an elephant memory,
I recall the nights I tossed with marbles with siblings.
Right here, legs crossed in circles around the unfading flames to hear tales of little wanderers from the grey of the home.
Then I dreamt a longer season.
But a branch had already opened it jaws,
and the squirrel through dance, unnoticed, fell in.
Today on this forecourt, I await those moments in reunion.
Those moments that kept us at heart
and never wanted to desert us from thier fruits.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem