It isn’t but to pass, the waning hour
Of desire and that opportunity nearly squandered -
The soul’s calloused scars of never-ending promise,
Denied in the vitriolic stream of unrelenting time.
She marches onward, unaware and unconcerned -
The iron pots that catch the winter rain, at first,
Giving life, before yielding to the springtime larvae
That aim to take it - unaware of the original intent.
This isn’t about the fawn, the calf, or the
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem