There are blue-gum trees that rise
where now just some of the stones are left,
next to a big old burned down house
and I am gripped by the sad story,
do walk into the remains, the ruin,
do notice that it had been a lovely round double storey
where still some black marks are visible and some spider webs
and at a time it was carefully tended
where now it is pillaged,
stripped of window frames and glass
when suddenly a grown snake hisses at me
as if it does fit neatly into the rubbish
and I wonder why life does sometimes
throw twists without any chance of deliverance?
© Gert Strydom
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem