I lived beneath my children,
For a brief but harried time.
Yet, I knew solace that winter,
Knowing my boys were above me.
Running up the stairs, after school,
I could hear them for hours, through the walls,
At night, their muffled angelic voices
Would chase my nightmares away.
And when I fell to my knees, hopeless
they would descend like Angels
With broad white wings, calming me,
faithfully, I slept to the whispering whir of a fan...
And the God I prayed to was a boy
Who had a little brother he shared a cloud with.
And I, a broken man, was their charge
Copyright ©2006 John Thomas Tansey
You are very talented... I could only aspire to attain a fraction of what you've forgotten...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Now that is perfection! Not a syllable out of place, John - one doesn't need to have gone through it to feel it, thanks to the way you write it.