The fiddler picked up his bow
He had promised you a show
The writer ate a peach in her mind
And thought of gentle ways
To be unkind to her readers
The lion tamer changed his boots
And adored his dead wife's picture
In its sterling frame
The child in brown knickers
Fishes paper boats out of the river
And reads aloud the prayers written within
A splayed being with multiple faces
Manipulating a single voice
Ponders over a choice
A woman with the head of a crane
Wonders if I will live again
And walk the blue light streets
In the city of the moon
Where what is lost
Is found
But never too soon.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem