Priscilla
I feel like elixir, liquid in a pot and boiling.
She remains large spoon, long stick, stirring.
I thicken as time goes; a solvent turn solid.
“You can write, you must write, ” She said
And writing is what I did.
Good or bad, I am I, a poet, she made me.
Now apart and away; she is sick with cancer
I am done with school; words stay inside me.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem