Is tranquility a brick wall?
Its patient dust compressed
into a still red stone?
Sharp edges muffled in mortar
Silently absorbing the sun
when the rain, half-repelled, half-
grasped on a misty afternoon,
has ceased to darken our rough bricks?
The sounds of passing children
likewise soak in, falling into solid
contentment in the heart
of our red and reaching wall
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A nice poetic imagination, Bonnie. You may like to read my poem, Love and Lust. Thanks