Perhaps you were a sheet of leaves, strewn across my bed.
That gave me the warmth autumn, and brought dreams into my head.
Perhaps you were a little cloud, gliding in the night.
To keep me warm and safe,
and snuggled oh so tight.
Perhaps you were a kingly robe, which held me in fleece or cotton.
And promised me the kingdom within the great matin.
But no ‘perhaps’ had made me think
you were a newspaper, my mother wrapped me in.
A mediocre case of
Patchwork journalism,
sewn with mother’s love.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem