Sometimes they come in tides
Crushing the stones on the shore
Sometimes they lie in an abyss
Waiting to be found
Sometimes they spew their venoms
And penetrate the deepest wound
When the owls feast on their prey
Until the dew kisses the meadow
In an eyrie I coil
The vial of ink in my hand
Is eager to stain
The scroll on my desk
I wait for the words
to wake up
from their deep slumber
Copyright © aya_poetess October 2017
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
The vial of ink in your hand is eager to stain. An amazing brilliant poem is interestingly drafted.10