Buried in the mother's lap of a book,
like a violet i once got from an island on the Seine.
I was once in heaven, keeping track
of moons who cannot speak of their travels.
Like faith drank down whenever you get your way.
To ask someone if that smooth mattress i am dying on,
is really clouds we shall drink from;
To be young from hand to hand,
and know about heaven from listening to roots
and not the lifetime of our tired eyes.
Which can only look and watch
with suspicion a single kind word.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
the poem is bringing the truth from the ocean....the last lines clearly depicts...which can only look and watch with suspicion a single kind word. Thank you for your kind sharing.