Everyone can write poems,
But few can write poetry,
That is what she said to me
when she stepped out of the grave,
spotless and demanding. A
question mark written all over
her face, Commitment, ,
Is that inside you she asked,
Never expecting an answer,
Who is this being,
My mother,
My wife,
Mother nature,
I have no idea.....
She came back last night,
smiling, in an unconvincing
kind of way,
She threw out a net
and trawled through my brain,
All she found were
Chards of stone,
was that all there was,
Or should I have said,
I Love You.......
This is sort of a scary poem, but I like it. Nice write. Bien!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Wow Paddy you capture the reader with the mastery of your words and draw them into the magic you weave