The old stone wall stands tall,
A ghetto to imprison the different.
Below it -
Her eyes sit in their sockets,
One a marble and one a squashed grape.
Below that her mouth is like grain,
On a weathered piece of wood.
On her cloak,
A badge,
A paracetamol calling out about the blackness crouched in front of her.
Around her neck,
A sign,
A rear-view mirror reflecting only darkness.
Wrapped around her,
A black cloak,
A shroud of everlasting night.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Hi Zog, absolutely loved your bio, full of power confidence and defiance, all these traits are clearly shown within this excellent piece of work - brilliant! Neil.