The view for the trouble, it is..ok..
it, tries to guess, always.
It is winded from the floating hot spots..
Thermals of death, as the red,
liquid rock flows around it.
Bubbles of cool air, usurped
by silvers yellow mist.
It is mired, the assent was dangerous,
so often as not foolish.
Wood burns upon this ground, when touched,
touched not, it is the glass and hot air, around it.
Coast guard is to far away,
is, buttes thick, in miles of smiles, so
it has to breath it, while slipping into a parachute.
It is to sad all the risk was for, cups java.......
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Amazing images here iip...great poem...Fi 10+++