A muzzled noise,
and a frightened
look, and a tranquil
place, filled with
water and rust.
A shiney toy,
with broken wheels,
still the child plays,
in the middle of the
yard.
mama picks him up,
daddy pats his head,
and the door swings
open, and this house,
becomes a home again.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Now there is a surrealistic radiance here, that although i can't place my finger directly on it's mark...it is there, my friend...it is truly there..and working all so well... Solid crafting, David frank