An old bent brittle man,
soaks up the silence,
stands beside his little
Eden, hidden inside the
womb of the sordid city.
watching the summer fire-
flies dance in the scented
breeze.
old over used knees
remind him of his position.
His face cherry red from
the burning leaves,
thoughts and fumes
rise to the skies in unison.
Alone but totally surrounded.
Every summer now,
when burning leaves,
find my tunnelled senses,
I remember his face,
home to a thousand thoughts,
home to many a lost love.
Just him, burning leaves,
in his little secret Eden.
This is nice Vincent, leaves me full of orange for some reason - Iovely poem. Moyaxx
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Vincey, I like the way this little tale unfolds and the way the second verse so sweetly-sadly closes it. That aside, thanks for your comments on my writing today. Warm regards, Gina.