With the ink of blood
he scribbles on a scratch paper in the midnight
to move the mountains.
A penniless, wealthier in heart
lives near by the pauper's graveyard.
Day time a gravedigger
and a handsome lover to the girl
who comes to collect
withered flowers of the wreaths.
To the poet Roy.Storey
I'm not sure how you came up with this one, but it is so deep and intence that it really pulls at the readers heart.A brilliant tallent you have showed us again.Love Duncan
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A beautiful, world class poem. Kindest regards, Sandra