A Crumbling Dream

Important notice(s): This poem is nine years old. I simply translated it through ‘Google’ and made obvious corrections but even with certain terrible sentences constructs, this ancient perceiveration of mine felt so appropriate and correct in the light of certain recent events that I decided to share it. When I wrote it, I was fifteen years old and I thought ‘Not everything needs to make sense’.
The whispers in dissolution,
Evaporating in the colors of the horizon,
Who magnetizes the dew, the orange,
Then at night, the strange,
The plains of barley,
Soliciting my presence,
Who’s subtle and gilded filaments,
Are born and then fly away, from the earth, from evil,
Joining with the coveted stars,
The sweetness of a simple gaze,
Of knowing How to look,
 Seems to enlighten the countries with greatness and harmony,
 The wonders of poetry, influencing,
Metamorphosing this haggard world,
Ripening beauty in this rotten existence.
Remember that we tasted the flavor,
From this masked reality,
Which is mine before my eyes,
Which delays the sleep, the horrors,
For under a whimsical tree , my love, you will weep many confessions.
And then the spark of hope will shine,
Through the thick clouds of a sincere morning,
Will be in the distance, see,
Then you will dry your tears and abandon this despair,
And you will also abandon me.
Your head will leave the comfort of mine,
And the flowers will be reborn under your redeeming and empowered withdrawal,
You will leave my dream,
Crossing the light and the plains, Leaving me alone,
Weeping in my World,
Under my tree, like a dreamer,
Until one day you come back, Stained by misfortune,
Once again.


-Beldam, 128 yf


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