All grandmothers whisper, their lips move, they brush their hair
they mutter incantations over dead husbands
long forgotten.
Ineffable sweetness hiding imaginary blowtorches,
tweezers, in my conversations
boldly gone penciling when I ever buried my face
into the timid breasts of shadows' light of moon's
rare reverence, it beckoned as though lost night stars find me
most lovely when in thoughts of death I find solace
if lucid in rain my flesh must be foolish or dry
I know my love, she is as flowers
- lush even in darkness
my flesh is the rainmaker
it embraces me so
I have gathered beneath rain's gossamer restlessness
secrets and terrors of deep deep ponds' loveliness
all grandmothers whisper, their lips move, they brush their hair...
all grandmas whisper, they whisper the truth. If only we would listen, a good poem about grandmas
I have gathered beneath rain's gossamer restlessness secrets and terrors of deep deep ponds' loveliness vivid graphical expression!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I have gathered beneath rain's gossamer restlessness secrets and terrors of deep deep ponds' loveliness Beautiful lines that give a tilt to our imagination and herald us into some secret caverns!