In The Ironic World - Poem by Max Reif
In the ironic world,
first upon a mirror before
reflecting to our Earth.
Thoughts are buried,
not spoken, and grow
into strange trees
with mutated fruits.
Even the air
before our nostrils,
I can feel it. How I long
for naive, direct days that vanished
beneath the waves with the heroes
and are waiting
within my heart
to be re-born!
Comments about In The Ironic World by Max Reif
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
- Still I RiseMaya Angelou
- The Road Not TakenRobert Frost
- If You Forget MePablo Neruda
- DreamsLangston Hughes
- Annabel LeeEdgar Allan Poe
- IfRudyard Kipling
- Stopping By Woods On A Snowy EveningRobert Frost
- Do Not Stand At My Grave And WeepMary Elizabeth Frye
- I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love YouPablo Neruda
- TelevisionRoald Dahl