I sit beneath the silvered soaring moon
With my back against a tree.
Bark is rough against my spine.
The sweet honeysuckle entwines
Releasing heady scents that inspire
To dreams of tranquillity.
I hold a bowl of cherries,
In my lap. Skins shining.
Black as blood beneath the night.
Juices drip as I indulge,
All senses sparked as I revel
In this rare delight.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem