The crow flew above the future
And the road thinned off beyond the rise of imagination
Yet the innocence in me seemed unmoved by the out flung imaginary hills
Songs of prays, songs of sorrow: composed but still unsung
It was all dust, it is all dust
Or will it be so beyond the horizon
Whence the eagle peers into the far depths below
Therein sounds of today and hereafter are a sweet sounding cacophony
From somewhere in the heights
I peeped over the dark hanging clouds of morass
My feet swinging in the turbulence below
I have the power of the hour, afloat the emptiness of life
I can write, not sure if I can read
That much graffiti laden windy wall
Message or no message, the blind must use his imagination
For to him there's so much light in the deep darkness we know
20 June 2023
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem