Blood clings
to the glint of his sword
the sound of battle
deafening him
to the sound of pity.
Here now
his lady
letting her hair
and her dress
fall down
me not knowing
what words
pass among
their laughing
as now the storm
rattles the stained glass
and they become
the statues
that their grave
commemorates
and they lie
together now in death
all that is past is Past
my mind reaching tentatively towards them
across the years
that are lost
lost now
in Time
my wristwatch
ticks
a quarter to nine.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Very well written. I enjoy the imagery. All your work is impressive. -ralph