Breaketh ye the idle mind
That runs with blackened vengeance,
Like the warhorse
Through the village of the past,
Whose wicked
Neigh and snort,
Doth strike the fragile heart
And drive all love away
With hooves of iron to trample
The memory of kindness
‘Till there is none left
To feel or say.
8-14-06
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem