Appeased evening.
On our table:
The bread of the angels.
The calm wheat.
The years of useless running.
Inside our feet
The shadows travel
As fast as light.
Little by little
Our names grow old with us.
They know us.
They become more our own.
- -
From Aged Mirrors - trilogyofthemirrors.com
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Another splendid write, dear Raquel...............10++++++++++++++