That night
the skies had agonies
of sneezes
and coughs
and paroxysms of colored
smoke,
fumes,
curly and dispersed
tails of disappearing
dragons,
phantoms
and evil spirits,
shot and almost killed
by bullets
and rockets of hope
and shouts of hope
and cheers of hope.
Wounded was the sky.
Wounded was that night.
The first morning came
almost looking healed.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
great write...from a brilliant mind....from a distorted yesterday comes a new morning....inspiring piece.....