if we have written in sand
if we have spoken in snows
if we have died like roses die
and come back blossoming
in a farther Spring
or sung in between the lines
in the play that was never ours after all,
a subtext of sighs-of prayers that are heard
the instant you understand
how lucky it is to be here on earth
suspended on this blue and green pendant;
on a Tree of stars.
mary angela douglas 11 november 2015
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Beautiful images, and enjoyable word flow, thank you for sharing your fine work
Thank you very much. Being in a mood of frustration with so much nonsense that is going on in the literary world/community I realized again that you can always fall back into a mood of extreme gratitude that poetry exists at all and no matter what, that we exist too. Also whenever I feel gloomy about the state of modern poetry I think, so much immortal poetry has already been written and we can still read it and rejoice in it. There is always hope when you try to be grateful.