Lunaria, shimmering on a hill of my making.
The Moon like a sheltered leaf,
always knew better.
Yet I haven't seen hippopotamuses amuse
themselves in clouds of caked mud
or smiles resting for the sadness.
Life for the reaching,
my tongue curling around
self proclaimed aspirations.
The palette perhaps improbable
But its braver your own way.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A great poem, like it.