Walking in a world that is not mine:
Moving colors dying as they consume themselves-
Dwarves under overpasses too soon besides
Where I used to live;
And thinking of her, while the sun goes down- flesh mending
On bone- flowers in a garden trying to survive
The last moments of this year,
And the sky above us- her children in a graveyard of
Make-believe
And all of my wishes approaching a summit as smooth
As glass beneath the insouciant wishes of
The jumpstarting airplanes.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Interesting aproach robert; nice one