Wanting, like most a fantasy, is a sinkhole beneath your feet.
It's Icarus befallen, melted with his waxen wings' hubris.
Souls stymied then rots with envy, sows such needful things.
Hope is but a naïve youth casting lures into the night, while
Invictus conquers the long ride with men's devotions…
Never land carousels can never replace heaven, all
Gilded but not gold… words & wishes, echoes of empty halls.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem