but there's nothing more to say
Dolls made of clay
Forever changing and yet unchanged
Waiting for a day i can finally say i'm really okay
So I'll laugh and dance to your song
i giggle and sway
But there's nothing more to say
Empty hollow dolls made of clay
My world once full of color now so grey
Waiting among these dolls made of clay
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
This is genuine poetry Elashira. Instead of just telling us of your sense of loss and the emotional paralysis that accompanies it, you found a concrete and vivid metaphor to SHOW your experience. (This may be the hardest single element of poetry-writing for people to wrap their minds around; many think they can do poetry just by stringing together line after line of literal statements. No, that's how you write a diary! Poetry is elsewhere! You already get this whether or not you can articulate it in so many words.) The dolls themselves are not just inert objects - they evoke my sympathy trapped as they are in a fixed state, unable to release their soul-energy. And by extension you transfer to your human self the inertness of the dolls, creating an unbearable tension in the reader. WOW! This is how we poets translate feelings into images, and images into poetry. Now I KNOW the pain of waiting for the return of unrequited feelings.