The sun makes the sun red
The sand makes my tongue coarse
The storm makes my feet wait
My feet make the barn noisy
Crushing carpets
mossy with crumbs
that dead bugs won't eat
and bits too old and stale for mice to loot
The rats make you their friends
and you fed them roots grown from the rains of the storm that makes my feet wait
from the sands that make my tongue coarse
and the sun that makes the sand red
and sold from the barn made noisy by my feet
crushing carpets
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A wonderful and thoughtful poem, Luke/ Thanks