Hours of glue and decals,
with eyes on instructions,
and fingers twisting molded
plastic from flimsy gray
frames;
launch his model fleet
on shelved walls,
a landlocked solid ocean
for an arduously produced
armada.
A mother's rage, the storm,
born of unwashed dishes,
shatter a flotilla that none
of his cementing tears can
repair.
Further shipyard projects
are constructed in wary fear
of an unpredictable maternal
sea.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem