How many,
there are all around me.
Loosing count of them all.
I am found.
Never knowing,
who it is, that I am.
After once being told.
Bulging out,
is the full ripe smell,
of the heady fruit.
Growing sweaty,
and picked by hand.
Approaching; a long phalanx
is then,
when in the end
forthcoming;
becoming is after each,
and being,
taken away from to the market.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Wonderful poem with a perfect theme.. feeling is the keyword here....Mari