Old and worn is our plumage
None too bright and none too fresh
We have traveled great distances
Standing like snakes in a daze
Our inner light is dimming
Held up only by will
We could collapse anytime
Summer turns to fall
And day to night
The witch's moon hangs low
A distant smell
Of burning wood and dying leaves
Creates a tear
An opening
Where fingers protrude
Gripping and ripping to get out
We are born
Fresh plumage
A light in our eyes
And the sun in the sky
As we sit under the hues of fall
Turning thoughts into colors.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
the sweet smell of balsam is very pleasant early morning and it is one of my favorite subject..Thank you for sharing!