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.
Lost hue of the spring.
The dying lights of a misaligned gaze
That once bridged two rivers hoping for a common source
Hoping to embrace in one bank.
The peeling of paint,
Mixed with turpentine,
And the stains on the easel
Thrown with ambition
Into the garbage.
The sandcastle destroyed by the low tide,
Its turrets defenseless,
To the beachcomber who lost interest
Their footprints effaced by the tide.