Autumn wearing robes of orange.
Sunsets painted in violet hues.
Dreams floating across azure skies.
The romantics' tools born
out of the wide-eyed child
we all once knew so well.
A thin golden thread
too often cut on the shining edge
of logic and reason.
Leave this mask
beside the beckoning river.
We can still walk once more
embraced by the amber meadow.
We are too young
to feel so cold.
The world will always wait.
1988/rev.2006
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem