How romantic they are in his mind,
crouched around the fire singing songs,
their sad emaciated dog behind
them, barking at the moon. He counts the wrongs,
pities them in his way, himself not right
in life, or ever in his troubled head.
He, too, beholds things in a different light.
Today the ale was malty, amber red,
yet like a grunting badger he now runs,
looking for Mary in the hazel woods.
He will not find her, or their ghostly sons.
He’ll spend the night outside the Gypsy camp,
pipe in his mouth, bag full of stolen goods,
his mind warmed by sweet dreams, his body damp.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Very well written description. Sometimes ones mind develops its own concept of reality which seems to allow them to continue to have the 'sweet dreams' in a situation that would drive the rest of us up the wall. Thanks, I like this very much.