This Poem Is Not Mine. Poem by Rita Shay
This Poem Is Not Mine.
Dusk in November. Twisted, blackened, naked branches frame an impossibly deep purple sunset that briefly sweeps the sky. He stands at the doorwall, humbled and honored by the moments which are filled with a haunting and frightening lonely beauty. Even as his soul expands in gratitude, it also shivers with the whiperings of mortality. And then the moment passes. As it will. Always.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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5/4/2024 6:27:56 AM # 1.0.0.1119
nice poem, it looks like yours anyway :)