Wicked is his stride as he glides with the breeze,
to break the cusp of dusk he cuts the rivers on his sleeves
and he bleeds, he bleeds roaring raging seas —
you'll never see just what he needs to help him go to sleep,
and when he wakes he'll weep and shake,
lonely as can be.
Slow he'll flow, careful and morose
to his budding bay of daisies.
You'll find him there in solitude and despair, falling freely in steady streams.
- Samuel Richard Leonard
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem