Dreams skip through the blue of an early morn,
Dancing on painted cobwebbed graphics,
digging up gardens of crawling carpet,
crunching the grubs which stand alone.
The Lupines sway in the beauty of youth
Stretching then jousting then wriggling then plucked,
As the morning crashes in to realities wall, and you're
Confused by the direction it took. Through an overhead mirror
You peer through your past, you paint as a hobo with
blue now all black, you fight with the colour of songbirds
in tune, you take pictures as if you were dead.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem