Morning creeps.
Windy water waves
Duning shadowy Sun
Hollows...
Reigning seconds
Just right.
Everything moving,
As I, casting stones...
Morning prophecies.
They land on edges.
Morning stands high...
Walks towards Day.
Shadows kept at bay early light of day morning wave upon your shore has left the smell of salt upon those stones so carelessly left unwanted upon that sill.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
To 'is it poetry': Never did I say I did not want those stones. Indeed, you have missed the point. Elysabeth