They hummed.
And sang,
but when they drooled
I raised my hand
puckered my lips,
smoothed out my hair,
as if to say
I am perpetually
immersed in love,
with all of you.
And then they left,
to follow strange pursuits,
and harvest more exotic fruits.
I drooled just at the memory.
And then I died.
You died immersed in a sea of love, speaker. That's more than a lot of us others can hope for. Herbs, you might choose to give it up, throw it away, or forget about it, but you'll never ever literally lose your gift for writing. Love, Gina.
What an image this gave me Herbert! There's such a powerful feeling of love in this poem.....without the sappy stuff! Great way for me to end my morning session. I'm off to the volleyball tournament! Take care Herbert! You know we all love you! Sincerely, Mary
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Strange flowers have been known to grow out of a dungheap, and your flowers are blooming, Old Man. I think that your strength of writing will only improve, not go away!