I missed the Spring.
I fell asleep under the shadows of my desires,
with mandolin sounds for lullabies
and my grandfather’s pipe,
in dreams dressed in herbal smoke and honey scents
and the beauty of my loved ones.
I missed the Spring.
I was late for my soul,
too late for a song,
deceived by the lotus flowers
and the smiles of the sirens,
their seductive bodies waving my sanity away.
I missed the Spring.
The ring of oblivion was Time’s gift,
a nursery rhyme’s forgotten curse,
here like now, absent like never,
a colourless rainbow reflection
on eyes of sadness.
I missed the Spring.
I woke up in the slumbers of my regrets,
by tribal drumbeats for breakfast
and my grandmother’s tales,
in a reality stripped of hope and home warmth,
well worth the loneliness of a poem.
I missed the Spring.
This is a beautiful poem, Niko, neatly adorned with images of that pleasant season and bristling with personal longing. Don't worry, Niko. It comes again next year.
Embracing change and accepting loss leads to novel new beginnings. Elizabeth x
Sounds to me you're getting home sick. Watch out for those seductive sirenes, appearing in front of you as promises for a better job, a better continent, more hope, a better life all together. Hopefully you won't be too late for those that leave you for ever and never come back. There's still time, right? CeCe
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I agree, it was truly beautiful. I loved the line about the mandolin lullabies.