snow still lurking upsky
waiting few degrees shy
I wonder if it will come
or leaves us warm and calm
leaves are still to a snail
even those that already fell
I reach inside my pocket empty
I have spend all my change lately
I got beaten by all this hoopla
discount to seem almost given free
but if you stop and think; trickery
we are drain, buried in debt, pity
how could new year, a promise to be
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
You chose the right words to make your point. Rhyming poetry does seem to be a dying art. And writers who are keeping it alive are absolutely worthy of as much respect as writers who choose other forms.