I don't grasp to them too tight,
yet in the misty recollections
of what could be called my life reflections
they come to me, unsummomed,
unguarded, blouse unbuttoned
They tempt, they call,
either sleeping, laying or dreaming,
in the bluest skies,
on hills lush with green,
there they are, always fresh,
hanging low, easy to pick
And I can't help myself,
the loss of the minutes
is sometimes overbearing
and those are the moments
you'll find me thoughtlessly staring,
out of windows, at the floor,
past a crowd, or at the shore,
wondering, needing, wanting
to be and do, some things old
and some things new
Then go back to life,
like it's nothing but the end
of another day, which it always is
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A thought by all beautifully painted. Loved reading it.