FOOT STEPS
I climb the stairs at night.
To hide myself out of sight.
I go to lay down in bed.
To rest my little head.
As I lay there I do hear.
Footsteps that do come near.
I know I'm not taking a nap.
But I do hear those feet that tap.
I know it's not my toys.
For what a joy it was my mom.
May 6th 1997 by Harold Hunt.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem