Blood red moons arise in visions and dreams.
Death's bride hides in molecular structures.
The children of light wait so patiently.
For the fresh, redeeming April rain, as
The old world of glory sighs and crumbles.
Although symbols and fables have now lost
Their power to charm, a new age stumbles
Into being. Will it survive the frost?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem