i heard promise from breeze
tiny echoes wiggling creases
sharp edges running through
i keep my face out of reach
it tickle tips of my teeth
and my hair crawl beneath
i sit here thinking tomorrow
dreaming, what should i do
there is that game on saturday
chasing little balls on fairway
i rather be hearing what you say
about anything and my, my poetry
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem