In the ironic world,
sunlight falls
first upon a mirror before
reflecting to our Earth.
Thoughts are buried,
not spoken, and grow
into strange trees
with mutated fruits.
Even the air
goes somewhere
before our nostrils,
I can feel it. How I long
for naive, direct days that vanished
beneath the waves with the heroes
and are waiting
within my heart
to be re-born!
But what a delicious treasure to have in our hearts...waiting to be re-born! Here's to the new birth!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A 'delicious' nostalgia. Susie xx.