The chains, the early grave, the holy light of day.
Once sacred, once fed.....the sins of the father,
the lie sung by the troubadour's cry, the peasant
in the field-in strife with season's toil to abide,
the scorching sun is wide. The scorching sun's
alive, a rose color-red blooms the sky, there
goes the sun in slumber and rise the moon in
silent wonder. The trees rattle by the wind-
the ancient cathedral-candles lit within, where
ancient proverbs hung, the hour of sin to be
strung.
A piece of perfection. An ideal poem to represent the true art of poetry. Superb, Theo. -Wes
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A very nice poem. Ron