The baby looked out the window.
Seasons go by;
Helping takes my time;
Life seems to pass…
The child sat on the porch.
The moon is back;
The stars have change;
The leaves begin to fall…
The adult grows flowers.
Winter’s winds blew
the problems away;
Spring breeds new life;
Now I harvest my red tulips…
My body lies on sweet ground.
My harvest new tulips lay on my grave;
The seasons no longer pass;
The moon will never rise again;
For I’m no longer bound to time…
I’m dead.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
This poem talks about life and death but not physically, its more of a psicological death. Like when a cycle ends for another cycle to begin. A fresh new start so call it. *Note* None of my poems are in any way suicidal!