With one hand I drift silently.
Not because I am lighter than air,
because of what I am holding.
Beneath my feet tall buildings appear small,
divided by avenues lined with trees,
only to disappear into the haze of congestion.
Red rose balloons carrying me safely,
but where? I neither know nor care!
Does it matter?
- No, not really!
For I am happy to watch the world slip slowly beneath my feet.
Knowing that people below are seeing me and wishing,
just wishing, they were here instead of me!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I was wondering what “WITH one hand” meant. then, before finishing the reading, I scrolled down and saw the incredible photo; is that YOU? SUPPER TIME! WISHING TO BE IN DEATH’S GRIP, almost? ? ! maybe! bri :)