The Hat Poem by Nadya Mikhajlova
The Hat
My grandad`s hat was old,
Moth-eaten, patched,
Salted with beads of sweat.
But when he put it on
Everything was going another way.
Wrinkled strong hands
Holding the sharp cold scythe
And stacks were risen
And fields were calm.
I keep it carefully now,
But I know, it dreams of
Fields and horses,
And salted winds,
And sun-sets purple
Like the blood of
Wise and wild maturity.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Delivering Poems Around The World
Poems are the property of their respective owners. All information has been reproduced here for educational and informational purposes to benefit site visitors, and is provided at no charge...
5/6/2024 12:53:24 AM # 1.0.0.1119
Sweet remembrances of the GrandPa, well portrayed through the hat that you keep safe and imagine of all of his dreams. Thank you. tony