I am far from home,
far from belief in magic,
from belief in tomorrow.
Foolhardy wishes are vanished.
Maps drawn in the sand,
washed away by the tide,
the final leaves of autumn,
fuel no foolish notions
of spring's reprieve.
Sentiments of poetry, art,
paper and stone hopefulness
are betrayals of dreaming.
Tomorrow is a bland sunrise,
no noon day secrets
argue with curiosity,
and an empty
and absurd illusion
frames sundown.
No new season beckons,
only night is left,
cold mystery,
damp velvet darkness,
and until then,
the comfort of defiance.
A very srong sentiment -we often have-of things happening around described poeticaly in a beautiful way.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
From the title I was expecting something different, but this is way more amazing. Life brings us to a point where we r far from everything. Great thought.
Thank you Nosheen. Moods come and go but this one comes often for me even though the poem was written years ago.