THE PINK GLEN
A translation of the previous poem.
of the pink glen
with clematises running
like oblivious
children
like coloured balls
bouncing
from stone to stone
all the way down
to the sea?
You’ve taken my hand
and I spring forward
and I leap o’er the leaves,
o’er the flowers,
brushing nimbly
past the petals
while my dress swells
with the breeze.
We travel, airborne,
down to the shore
and sit on the waves
where the sunset weaves
pink clematises
on the rounded
ripples
of the sea.
mp
Par l'imagination, la boucle est bouclée. Tout en haut et tout en bas, la vision est la même.
RépondreSupprimerWith the power of the imagination, we are back to the pink flowers in the glen. Top and bottom are now alike.