The Poppies (Magda Isanos) Poem by Paul Abucean

Like living torches they were burning
on stems so delicately weak.
Each breezy poppy, laughing, turning
away from thorns a blazing cheek.

I let my greedy hands collect them,
and straying through the eve of balm,
I loaded up my arms to sate them,
a hot yet fleeting urge to calm.

And late, when coming home at dark,
I left the meadow on its own,
it seemed so faraway, so stark,
and so alone.

But when I tried to bind the poppies
and in a lively bunch to store,
their wilted petals spread and scattered
like falling teardrops on the floor.

(Translated by Paul Abucean)