Erect this rampart around my lone heart
in case we must part before I can start
hoping for more
while I implore
your grace and your art when you must depart.
When current and sea wash right over me
I babble a plea like lonesome debris
while getting towed,
saline bestowed,
until I agree to life’s jubilee.
Tumult shall erase what I can’t replace
to wash that sole trace of bliss from my face
you must return-
make my soul burn
as flames dance to chase my cheerful disgrace.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I love the clever rhyme scheme in here. And the words are so imaginative. I think when others grow up to become adults, poets still stay children in their hearts, and so things may wound them more deeply than others; but also, they still have that rampant creativity that sometimes seems to be lost in adulthood.