Once again shy voices, permeate the air
I don’t answer, cannot make a sound.
My time on earth as mortal ceased to be,
but memories remain of being there.
While the elements react to my unrest,
surround me as a maelstrom of emotions,
I know I am unable to return.
My need is something tangible to bear.
I long to tell my child death is a thief,
but bitter words belittle all that’s fine.
Instead I weave my love into a dream,
and let my kisses tangle in his hair.
I beg the wind to whistle though tall trees.
Soft rain to empty clouds of bitter tears.
The sun to melt the icy grip of sorrow.
The soil to spread existence everywhere.
Next time, the voices whisper, next time,
let go and join the guardians of the sky,
that float among the remnants of old stars
and while you wait - remember being there.
(Roan copyright © Mar.2011)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem