Green Cushion Poem by Elena Sandu
Green Cushion
I felt few sparks of gems
reflecting into my soul,
dreams, lives, like fire
one selves would try to burn.
The deeper I try to hide them
towards more searching
and more wondering I turn.
Could I be a thief,
an outlaw?
Could one be able to steal
own soul then offer it for free
at world's stretching factory
for its diligent workers
to strike it, making it
wider and louder
than it ever been
thin enough
to be brought to a tailor
to make of it a greatly needed thing:
For the fall from my wall
a protection cushion
with soften wisdom filled.
Could one be able to steal own soul then offer it for free at world's stretching factory for its diligent workers to strike it making it wider and louder than, thin enough to be brought to a tailor to make of it a greatly needed thing: for the fall of my wall a protection cushion with wisdom filled.
The soul is indeed a cushon upon which to fall... I love the sound that your pen makes inside of me...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/24/2024 10:59:11 PM # 1.0.0.1119
Perhaps we trade it everyday, in our dealings of love and commerce and relationships where we gain or loose ground, trading our soul in bits or chunks, but it regrows and we see it strengthen as a concentrate with happiness or contentment or see it diminish and become diluted as we succumb to life's trials and travel poor and alone without love. Indeed a cushion of a good heart or soul is best provided for us by the love of others and our love of them. This product should never be given away lightly as it is surely not ever available as a commercial quantity but instead given in special parcels to but a special few. Your poem is a great and provocative concept.