Intoxicated by wine breathing....
His calloused fingers, fretted snowflakes,
that floated in that hot, muggy, evening.
Her voice, clover and honeysuckle.
battling to win the air, octaves high.
She spoke of her words,
iron framed, but
her words spoke of
it all.
Teeming with life, even still,
the old warehouse was
transformed, into
a birthplace.
Art, reincarnated.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem