The child is not dead.
She is sleeping.
Gone from this world
Which is broken.
The angel of Michael
Outside the garden
His circle of fire
Maddening around the tree.
He put the word
Back into her:
A heavy kind of music.
Then she was free.
As we all are.
All night I stood in the icy wind,
Praying for the storm to destroy me.
But the wind blew through me
Like I was a hologram.
If you say I am a mystic,
Then fine: I'm a mystic.
The trees are not trees, anyway.
Congratulations being chosen as The Modern Poem Of The Day. Hoorray! 5 Stars full score
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Death is like sleep, but breathless, this brilliant poem is breathlessly written and very fantastic and imaginative, my great admiration for your imaginative realm and creating poetry