Liquid stone feels smooth an' cool 'neath an August sunrise,
breezes flutter leaves, dry the shackles of morning's dew-
taxing the weakest of the newborn verdure like ice on branch,
descries a blistering Summer day approaching; No shelter here;
just the quiet of arched granite sealing off it's aged cracks,
until the afternoon scorch of the skies flaming circinate burns-
the rugged sod, uneven, from its multitude... of penetrations,
patches course and brown; the August month lends Death no mercy,
until the late of the afternoon passes torch to welcome twilight-
cast it's majique pour of hues into rows of arched silhouettes.
All this I've seen in observance of nature and God's Will Be Done,
on a hill of a field where a breath of air be Life's only sign.
FjR-MMXXIX
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem