Under a Marlow half-moon,
modern-masters met
to drink, eat, and revise
in search of permanent perfectiion.
Egos were shaken
as barbed spears flew
on magnolia-colored thoughts
of spirited camaraderie.
Debates lasted well past
reverence and adoration,
opinion and distain.
The laureates whispered
and screamed
their common denominator,
and I, the larva on the wall,
sat waiting for my wings.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Mistress with words at your command. This is great, Kay.