By Thomas Page
This is a series of poems of words that do not directly translate into English. I have tried to capture the essence of the word in a poem.
The trees’ canopies hover above
And the sounds of humanity fade into the clouds obscured by pines and firs
As the babbling of distant brooks set the tempo of walking
Ever so slowly like primeval sap tapped
Concerned as molasses with the comings and goings
A scene of tranquility draped in leaves and needles
As one disappears into the wilderness
Making no sound.