My father,
an eloquent man, chased his inner demons with the spirits
of Appleton Estates.
His words could glide like sweet molasses
or sting like vinegar in an open wound.
At nights, I listened to childhood stories at his feet
spellbound by the sound of his voice
In my reverie, I caught fleeting glimpses
of a boy running though canefields with carefree abandon.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem