I crept into the darkness of a midnight dream
Stillness. Just the quiet rustle of late autumn leaves
No soul stirred as moonlight played on wilted eaves
Home grown old, many moons down the stream
Of a life that had tasted not just milk but cream
Cherished on days, at times stolen by thieves
Where to? is the question as life simply weaves
Its pattern in the fabric and overflows the seam
Reaching down to hem, touching an ancient floor
That creeks with cries of sad and flavored age
Broken words stuttered out by lips of wilted sage
All hushed no sound, I sat. I wondered in awe
Pondered the truths that lay hidden on life’s page
Saw light through the crack of an opening door.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem