in knowing that fairy tales are not true,
do we stop believing?
do we end up as hard rocks
muted stones and
slimy moss because we cannot believe
in gossamer wings anymore?
fancy has a function
and reality has a reason
too much reality kills, you must remember this
a little fairy with the wings of the dragonfly
comes on a full moonlit night
just to cheer you along
nothing more, nothing more
i believe in fairies,
part of the magical moment
in the life
of the tired man,
whose bones crack
whose face is twisted.
someone says,
and i hope i shall remember this always
when one stops believing,
another fairy in fantasy land is dying
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem