Blase, His Yet To Be Born Friends Poem by james watkin
Blase, His Yet To Be Born Friends
He just wandered off; that's enough
Of worry for to propound.
Plaything to a white winged host;
No worse for to be unfound.
Simply that in skipping on down
The golden paved no qualms yet
Dark crept up, for what dipped of home;
Like an opalescent sunset.
Nor on himself, but part declined
Smilingly, through that pure good
On its outskirts, outer suburbs;
So-named 'heavenly childhood'.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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8/29/2025 11:58:32 PM # 1.0.0
