the siren sounds and the world turns to dust
the trees spin about like little brown tops
while all the leaves run frantically away
and the people yell, hide, hide, hide
it’s tornado season, time for those pictures
of staircases to heaven, where no one wins
and it will be written that it’s impossible to win
and I sit here on the stoop, count the tumbleweeds
and all that matters is when the dust settles
and they look down; see a body covered in sand
clutching a tumbleweed with a smile on his face
they will shake their heads, mumble in their safe talk
the winds are here; time to sign the will, lock up
the treasures and bury them and the key, time
to say goodbye, say hello, say anything while
my only sight becomes the shade of sand
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Very expressive, written in your own unique style. You are indeed a poet worthy of the name. Kindest regards, Sandra