When one no longer differentiates between what’s called day and others call night
And losing ones self becomes blessed peace at heart along side a little respite
And feelings no longer accord with the rainbow but find them selves shades of gray
And the mind does silly tricks as if refusing to follow rules of today
And people turn topsy when inside talking to close of what is left for fine
And the rules play games they are ready to have broken in the chaos of time
And the ants trod on bricks paved golden by white washers with ever breaking oaths
You’ll get what the past all saw in histories defeats, sickness, heartaches, and health… and you’ll hope.
By Ruth L. Rivers
2-6-08
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem