What was the prophecy of
a slow moving floating name?
To hang a spy from the beam?
Your face lits up.
The world was translating
the labate grief into small mirrors.
A seed explodes. A magnetized
book of conduct is slapped on your face.
And you start reading the script
in darkness in a beautiful retreat.
The approaching night engulfs
the moon. An anonymous fear
takes hold of this moment before
disappearing in an abyss.
You stoke a desire to collect
the immortal blues and headless clues
and we crawl on the sands of time
breaking the silence by our drones.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Very nice poem sir, This poem deserve voting and I will do Very nice ease to the heart