He is a solo drum
trying to get his rhythm
against the sputtering rains
the mud sticks on trousers
wet and cool it can't sleep
in the thorns of our yard
I seek my balance in
yog-nidra in the closed
room think his thoughts and lies
we weave to ensnare spirit
that pricks the balloon we pump
to rise above the earth's green
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Nice poem. Well balanced