The wind is a whorl of movement
frisky alongside an ancient trail
marking time on Autumn
leaves once clumped in an estate
of tribal planning -
the wind elevates its myriad
of colours
calico twists and turns
spiraling within a windy velocity
a mighty burst
followed by mini-toreadors
dashing and clashing
snaking rashly between poplars
from one trail to another
until bliss is a windless kiss.
...the wind elevates its myriad of colours.... Wonderful.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Your poem is short but cute...Great write.