Clouds are my moving treasure, free, abundant, looming
as grey death or simply washing clean a slate of trials.
Hush your cries,
learn from your stolen promises;
the sun is no longer as certain as the expected death of a window
fly, and still your anger presides, your control is lost.
The grey day changes your patterns and scenes.
I dance,
bringing on a thunderous clap,
streaks in the sky charged with the power of spirits, the dead,
back to haunt our physical plane.
A legion of droplets scour the ground,
and just for a moment conjure enough madness to drift away.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
lines of pure dense poetry.. beautifull images and inner rhytm perfectly balancing the sense and melody