i looked at her with,
an earnest admiration
with a flare for spinning a tale
and a conviction in all that she wrote
tales of the past, perhaps ad libbed
perhaps, overstated, and understated
she had a flare for telling a tale
coming out of childhood
a poetess hid her tales in her old bible
in her old cookbooks,
time savoured the flare
and heated a passion for words
where silk found j
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem