She asked the sky to return to its normal state of affairs
And then remembered light pollution
A disconnected line
Her eyes as distant nebulas lost in gas clouds
Transitional seasons are her favorites
But now the seasons have no meaning
And she is lost
The obssession of her cries like a mending of the spirit
She tells me Jesus doesn't have her number
and I think she means a homeless man looking
through the trash
And she is fairy
Her voice like falling pebbles, like stone against stone against earth
She held my hand as we walked to and through a bridge
She told me her wings were too weak for flying
She told me her back couldn't stand the weight
And when I looked into her eyes
I knew she wanted to tell me tales of the sky and of her reign as its Queen
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem