poesia
ti invitiamo a tradurre questo poesia in italiano , grazie
The night time sky a trawler with it's net
the moon, catching ghosts, unable to
locate an echo of my future as it faded
away. We threw our net into the waters
below, I wonder if the sea aches for a
heart, it could sigh with the yawning
winds, on this my last trip for a final
haul of mussels. Spirits mistake water
for glass, they pour sand demanding,
form, mass, a frame for an hourglass.
I am but a grain of sand blown into
the eyes of time, resigned to heaven's
tides until they reach the shore. Our
hoard of mussels tastes the drumming
rain, my scarecrow heart is warning
of future terrain as he yearns to explore
the waters of the sun to find an hourglass
filled with suns.