It's a dark feast and stars were hidden purposely
And the Moon on vacation it seems.
The Goddess comes out through the dark clouds,
Just a small drizzle to their innocent hopes.
The poor girl is ready to go out from the ghetto with an unknown bridegroom,
A shooting star has fallen down to their journey as a chief guest.
'A good omen my dear and make a hundred thousand offspring for the next census to get temper with the blunt life.'
The bride's close relative an old Blacksmith said.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Great atmosphere in this one. It adds to the enigmatic fascination of your poem. Warm regards, Sandra