In the candlelight
the long thin leaves
point spindly fingers at me,
poking at my guilt.
Nighttime gladioli ghosts
fingering me for what
I fear I am.
Tendrils touching,
from the shadowy dark
the fear and fright,
which surfaces;
wakes me in the night
and makes me
light a candle
to write.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Can hear your voice as I read this enjoyable write. Beautiful and skilled work.