you are on another island, tonight.
we sat in front of the fire,
all huddled together like a bundle of innocent dreams,
and grandma told the long tale of a prince,
[she was always so conveniently long about stories]
who climbed the mountains and crossed the seas
to reach where his princes was.
the wind blew softly on us and we could feel the heat of the wood burning, on our glowing, eager faces.
as, here, years after, i sit on my terrace tonight and gaze into the starless night,
i wish i had a white horse,
a silver sword
and a magic mirror in which i could bring up your face.
i wish i could fly and be invisible and do everything i may need to be with you,
[when an young man is incapable of any heroism, the nights are cursed to bleed.]
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.