When the trumpets blow,
I will see her, the angel Evelyn,
lifted on a cloud,
air-jet transporting her
to heights. Pleasure is slight,
perfection interpreted.
She wants to be healed.
Please, grant her
that rare sex
that doesn't start
when it begins or end
when it is over.
Little Evelyn, soon an angel,
one maimed leg, I weep
to see it, the slight
drag of her right foot.
perfection interpreted, NICE LINE, I LIKE YOUR POEMS, THEY HAVE A LOUD VOICE.......
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Thank you, Kelly and David. I've been asleep in a hollow in a tree since 2006. Feeling rested. : -) Sarah