The whirling of the past, looming,
Stalking and gyrating at the edge of my curtain.
Sewing the old days. mayhap,
I could rehear the sound of giggles,
The toss of the cups.
Lullingly on The rhythms of beauty ambiance,
And quaff one mug of bear, In this snooze fest of life.
My visceral clamours.
As the giant hawk of fate,
Swallows a dreams of a good catch.
Optics everywhere glaring at me,
To sight my positivity.
Alas, my plaintive snores like a pig.
Success is like amountain.
Where patiently, sabre tooth tiger lies.
The infants frisson home.
The gut ones grab the surface of their bayonet
And dine in crystal house made of shinning gild
Still by hope
Of gigantic success
Helping hand ditached so faraway.
No recipe to reputation of hope
Perseverance suck my Africana bones.
Hidness precation buzzing off from my Gob
As the ball of fire spirit engulf me
Swift crossing the venturous path
And bask in affluence.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem