twelve hours to london, but backwards it's better
the clouds crowd far beneath my feet;
but i—i’m distant! i wish she could see
the lands stretched free beside my wings;
better yet, i wish
she could stay and see me.
twelve hours to london and ten to parís,
but i—i’m reversing! back home where i'm free!
the skies become my heart’s soft, wisping-sigh dream:
by flashlight, I add
an eighteen, a three
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.