I remember crying in my sleep.
I remember wiping my eyes
on the blanket my Uncle
brought back from the army,
with his name and rank
emblazoned on the left hand corner.
The dream that made me unhappy
in my boyhood sleep...
is private.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I always thought that poets does not have much privacy, revealing might be a best thing, this poem's end end seems out of joint, if not intended as a joking point.I take the risk of being not to clever and ask for liberty to laugh out loud, thanks again for share!