Silence in still anticipation, a hellish storm is brewing in the west.
A robins nest within the pines, will shred and cartwheel with the rest.
Arrow straight across the stillness, the mourning doves retreat.
Before a gray wall now deep purple, with daylight in defeat.
Noon has now turned to night, as ancient wonder grips us all.
To stay or run is the question, we ask ourselves, so frail, so small.
The universe now on display, releases the fury we ignore.
Woe unto the simple dreamer, that trusts the lock upon the door.
Woe unto the city sleeping, lost within their shiny screens.
This storm so deadly beautiful, will tear the dreamer from the dream.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I like the imagery evoked in your poem. The gentle rhyming belies the great storm coming. Well done.