my dreams are burnt
petals of
ordinary flowers
the sun hurts
dries every last leaf
on the vine
if the rains come
it has no purpose but
to make the rest of these dying dreams
to rot
it is a fungus world
there is no space for
growing
new dreams
but i keep the seeds
again
and they all still know
that art of
waiting
forever lies
in the softness of each
inner core
time is hope
and there will always be a room
a niche
for another growth
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
good one, i like it