Grey, black and light; hails my eyes-
In the frail frame, on strong shoulder;
I rest in recline, a trudging thought,
For days that didnt intersect, into the harbor.
Quick and precise, I found my calls Awake!
For tomorrow, when she would be old -grey,
With plight, with ecstasy -brownish radiant;
I hold my nerves, into a disciple to see them fly!
Interest marks the living, I lingered with passion-
For the numbers, in magical fray of my brief show,
Above the horizon, dreams eluding from utter insanity;
From clutches, to be proud, glorious lest it proffers to bow.
To error- is the gift to eerie fiddle-
Would not vanish pristine coup of the real.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem