The water claims victory
Of the steeple’s fractures
And erosion plays havoc
On its backbone
It starts to crumble
To tumble and fumble
For its way home
If only the world could craft
Such magic that would column possibilities
And I could peel away the dead skin
Like an onion and weep
With its overpowering abilities
But then with the last layer
Emerges the babe, the equivalent
But slighter, cleaner, better
And not afraid
Another body hidden beneath
The tired worn casing
This baby of a twin
Alert and taken to the lips
To the tongue,
To the gullet,
And almost to the heart
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
...this is...great...good job...