each night
before I may close my eyes to die
the moon begs my rest delay
with pale teary eyes
so I let my breath be carried
the wind lends my words wings
and I wrap my voice around her
soft as the sea sings
her sleep reminds our sorrow
that there's hope enough to weap
like bluebirds
not so far south to reach
through winter's withered reap
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
This is the kind of poem a poet can write when they just go outside and let nature inspire them; make the reader feel the wind in the words and such. I believe this one to be a success.