Tomorrow is only twenty-four hours away,
And yesterday is only a memory from today.
I climb up the stairs that lead me to the first floor of a crop-field.
I breath in the warmth of a sun.
My eyes are shut tight,
But I can picture everything without cognition,
I see the horizon,
With it's ambrosial colors,
And I see the wheat,
Sway back and forth with a chilly gust…
It's just like somebody has painted with immaculate precision.
But there is more to the painting,
A painting which carries an accent; a message.
A shriek of help scatters over the diminutive drips of yellow…
And the atmosphere collapses within itself.
Let it pour rain,
But do not let us drown.
Vocalize a foredoomed chant,
And ask for a miracle,
But you can't ask for perfection,
From a mere mortal.
Twisted in a curl,
And positioned to decay,
We place our memories of sorrow,
Deep inside the hollow barriers of denial…
We forget and move one;
Stronger people than before,
Hypocrites of life,
That hide in corners of glass.
Elude your circumstances,
Elude yourself,
But,
Tomorrow is always going to be twenty-four hours away,
And yesterday will forever be washed by waves of regret.
But today, will always be today…
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Phenomenal write))) an excellent poem