My Last Dream* Poem by Ian Bowen
My Last Dream*
If you look,
you still can
find empty
Summer meadows….
where paths
and roads
are made
of grass….
there, early
Rabbits run
wild through
pink eyed
flowers….
and the Sun
sprinkles mornings
with dew-
dripping showers.
But later as
the late sun runs….
you sleep,
as
candy floss
blossoms
drift down
to colour
the black
picnic cloth.
And now...
you are gone.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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5/4/2024 2:02:01 PM # 1.0.0.1119
