There is nothing quite like,
The roar of a quiet thunder.
To feel and be aware,
Of its penetrating silence.
Without a sound to make.
Although with an eyebrow raised.
And from fixed glaring eyes.
This thunder can and will chill quickly,
The air to freeze to stiffen bones.
Leaving the experience left remembered.
By those who know why,
This thunder appeared.
To make its presence known to be shown.
Specific.
Direct and not to miss.
"I...I...I...,
I didn't do or say one thing."
-Me either.-
"One of us is lieing.
Trying to hide and deny the truth."
-About what? -
"I don't know.
But your bladder?
Your bladder seems disinterested,
In keeping your secrets concealed."
-It's the heat.
I sweat easily in the heat.
It's the heat, I tell you.-
"I'm sure it is.
Your heat,
Has begun to wet my shoes."
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem