I stared at the ceiling
New thoughts had the podium
And would not let go
The comfortable perch
The warming blankets
The fleeting, fickle dreams
Would not be extended.
Outside yellow ash leaves
Fluttered in the damp gray
Persistent breeze
Emptying colonies in a single gust.
What would the day bring?
I rose bedside
Then stopped
Sensing a glorious weightlessness.
Behind me a form remained
Immobile
Dozing in the common things
Of "then"
Bot "now" was different
Brilliant, crystalline
Hinting at endless song
And the voices of many old friends
A compelling pulse of purpose
Colour, choirs and Christ
Outside my bedroom door.
Fully awake
Through death.
And wearing white.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem