The strange thing is that
most of my inspiration derives
from simple imitations
of the real world
The Sea is not fancied
my closest neighbor
yet I love it like the Sun
enjoys to rise
A little glass of tea
or a dark roast Verona
and a picture of something
I never dreamed I'd know
A few hours of running
or a shady grassy field
then I write as though
the world is ripe, ready to be peeled
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem