She rocked me in her arms and sung to me.
Whispering with the gentle rain,
she told me stories of Stollberg and Goethe
drying off their coattails
dipping their heads under the azure waters of Genève.
Keats hanging on to the life raft.
Timelessly on the glass, a fountain flower,
We dreamed of the sky winking to us
from the top of the groves to the west.
The reeds rustling in the red glow of
the water bellow the branches of the groves in the east.
watercolors rippling through burning nocturnes
as tender vibrato sneak up to the banks…
a blast of silence and I awoke
“It will fly poor boy what you have lost I have become”
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem