Summers sun dyes my skin,
Burning rust and warm hair
It lingers like a hot shadow
And refuses not to shine
Clouds of shade bring promises
A slow and persistent stalk
Worries float from me
On the breeze of summers air
Heavy eyelids already dreaming
Of memories too hard to hold
In the palm of one's mind
What's real and what is reality
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
An easy poem to identify with, for me. Quite often I fall asleep in an armchair while reading in the afternoon. It refreshes me a lot. What is real? Dreaming or being awake?