Smouldering of light
rises slowly in the east,
our land is blushing.
Amongst clumps of thorn,
the wooden monuments
of a life long gone.
A scene emerges,
for early luminosity
shows burial places.
Echo’s in the mist,
hold hidden memories,
still untouched by time.
Bob Blackwell
06-07-2011
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
You are rapidly becoming one of my favorites on this site. I'm definitely going to sit down on an evening and pour through your work. Fantastic write.