The will to stretch and swagger,
to row, to walk, to ride a bike,
so innocent, yet, like
high steps that drift or stagger,
stride broken, rhythm gone.
And there to catch the graceless
is the mother of grace,
ardent attached, yet other
antidote and antiphon,
hail mother.
[Remembering Bishop Thomas Grady]
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Lovely piece of poetry embellished beautiful rhyme and rhythm. A lovely creation. Thanks for sharing.