An Art Never Mastered, Never Dead Poem by Shelley Jones
An Art Never Mastered, Never Dead
Sitting in her tent,
The fortune teller
Surveys her crystal ball.
On any given day,
This can be black,
Lustre copper or blue.
Today it is almost clear
And inside, a spider
Spinning through a web
Not its own.
A business man had just left
Telling of takeovers
And new management.
Could that be it?
Or was it her gypsy relation,
Off wandering again?
Soon she'll know.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/25/2024 12:02:45 PM # 1.0.0.1119
