an imaginary pin drops
in the middle of the night
and I start from my sleep,
surrounded by memory's ghosts
and conscience.
I think of the brilliance of goals
scored on factory pitches
and long weekend hikes
into azure mountains -
relief from habitual living
and production floors.
primitive youth
lilting to and fro
as anger, lust
and dreams of the perfect
flooded my veins.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
wow very good.... very nice write