This tale by a mortal..
Has never been told..
Of trees made of many a jewel..
With fruits of silver and gold..
Of flowers with diamond petals..
Mmm.. Much fortune they will bring if sold..
Of creatures dat cry, refine..
Defecate and vomit..
Sweet goodly jewels very fine..
Which mortals can't make, no..
Not even a gold smith..
A place where the sun is pink, it walks with grace..
And pours pixie from it's glow..
Ah! I must be silent..
Ere the phantom-owners turn on me their face..
For what mouth speaks of it..
Is turned cold..
And wat living ears hear of it..
A statue shall be..
Standing in heat and cold..
With feet locked to a place..
As time grow old..
Ah! In loud silence i must remain..
Ere i stand under cold sun and hot rain..
Like those before me..
Shh.. Don't tell me of those trees don't tell me..
I don't want to know
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem