Sometimes like butterflies,
words land on my ear
and sit there
wings idling till
with straight pins
I attach them
to a page
without disturbing
the dust on their wings.
I watch them and then
name them before
I release them to soar
on a zephyr as if
they were my creation.
What a fool I am.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
This was a charming read, it really conjured up beautiful imagery, it flows like the sun on a nice summers day, the closing is bittersweet, you think your the creator and have control, but know one has control of a butterfly, nor the words that flow from the brook of your soul. A great read,