The morning dew rests on its shoulders
Bare as a vein exposed to a tantrum from a loud mouth that scolders
Clinging on its last thread
It grasps the feel of morning breath
A vacation of death spreads
Life twists its winds to sweep the weak standing in stale roots
Those are not preserved in nature’s time frame
Rain as are autumn leaves defaced
Dull and frayed
Genetically waits for new breed to form and sooths
With its last thread it breaths
A blatant mistake of its worth
It’s no more a segment from a living tree
But a fragment life ceased to feed
And waits to become a fossil of beauty
Death infiltrates its past
And relieve its meaning of existence
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem