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B Marchand Jul 17
The woman is writing in an unknown ink.
Izōs waurda in rauþai blōmins gamelida.
Darkness drives her hand.
Þaurstei blōþis swē þis ufsnaiþandins.
Writing her lexicon of horror.
Eis beidun saiƕan izos wulþu.
Volume bled at the seams.
Her voice was that of angels.
Kussus lubja-miliþs.
Eyes are mountain lions hunting in reed fields.
Gadáuþnan fram izōs handau was fahēþs.
She skips in the rainstorms.
Written with Gothic - dead language.
Louise Oct 2024
With your hair that glows golden
under the glimmering sun...
With your eyes that glistens
under summer heat's touch...
you are as soft as a cloud
on a weary traveler's mouth!

And with your skin that never burns,
but touch that makes the sun envy with red...
And with your laughter that glimmers,
the sands shall never again darken...
you are as sweet as day,
the morning sun at bay
after a night of gray!

𝘗𝘦𝘳 𝘡𝘰ë;
𝘦𝘭 𝘵𝘦𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘴ó𝘯 𝘦𝘭 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘳
𝘥𝘦𝘭 𝘴𝘰𝘭 𝘥𝘦 𝘭𝘢 𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘢,
𝘦𝘭 𝘵𝘦𝘶 𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘴 𝘴ó𝘯 𝘦𝘭 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘳
𝘥𝘦 𝘭𝘢 𝘭𝘭𝘶𝘮 𝘥𝘦𝘭 𝘥𝘪𝘢.
𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘮 𝘦𝘭 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘪𝘹 𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘨 𝘪 𝘱𝘦𝘭𝘭
𝘢𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘴 𝘥𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘳 𝘳𝘪𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘴,
𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘮𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘦𝘴 𝘪 𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘴ó𝘯 𝘵𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘴... ♡
From Manila and Malapascua to Mar Mediterrani,
Happy birthday Zoë! 💋
Feliç aniversari Zoë! 💋
Louise Oct 2024
With your eyes that lights up as you smile,
you could stretch a beach by another mile...
With your hair that falls like the forest light,
you make a nocturnal excited for sunrise...
You are a prize without a price!

Your dreams are a promised destination,
with your warmth that heals
under the island sky...
Your skin is a timeless celebration,
with your cheeks that redden
under the summer's touch...
You are a revelation and a surprise!

𝘗𝘦𝘳 𝘔𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘪𝘢;
𝘦𝘭 𝘵𝘦𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘭 é𝘴 𝘦𝘭 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘳 𝘥𝘦𝘭 𝘤𝘦𝘭 𝘯𝘰𝘤𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯,
𝘪 𝘦𝘭𝘴 𝘵𝘦𝘶𝘴 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘳𝘪𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘴 𝘴ó𝘯 𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴.
𝘦𝘭𝘴 𝘵𝘦𝘶𝘴 𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘴 𝘴ó𝘯 𝘥𝘦𝘭 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘪𝘹 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘳 𝘥𝘦𝘭𝘴 𝘮𝘦𝘶𝘴,
𝘱𝘰𝘵𝘴 𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘳-𝘩𝘰 𝘵𝘰𝘵 𝘢𝘭 𝘮ó𝘯 𝘥𝘦 𝘋é𝘶.
𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘮 𝘦𝘭𝘴 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘪𝘹𝘰𝘴
𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘳𝘴 𝘥𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘪 𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘴
𝘢𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘴 𝘥𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘳 𝘢𝘤𝘶𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘪 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘴,
𝘦𝘭𝘴 𝘮𝘦𝘶𝘴 𝘤𝘦𝘭𝘴 𝘪 𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘴ó𝘯 𝘵𝘦𝘶𝘴!

From Baler and Badian to Barcelona,
Happy birthday Mireia! 💋
Feliç aniversari Mireia! 💋
Maria Jul 2024
No quiero vivir donde
My people aren’t elated
Pentru să vin acasă.

I am greeted with tears in their eyes
Își iau avânt să mă întâlnesc căt mai rapid
Estoy envuelto en los abrazos más grandes.

They insist to hold my bags for me,
Una mano en mi espalda y la otra en mi equipaje
Mă ghidează la parcare.

Niciodată întreb pentru o călătorie
Una experiencia impagable por el amor que me rodea.
I always get a pang of emotions even for others experiencing the same with their family.

Never enough time
Niciodată destul timp
Nunca suficiente tiempo.
I wrote my first poem in Romanian, English and Spanish (the three languages I know) because I wanted to show how the words may come to me more easily in one language rather than the other. I tried to change up the order I used each language per line. Will continue experimenting with this. They aren’t direct translations by any means (except the last stanza), and that’s why it is special to me and anyone who speaks any of these languages, you’ll get different pieces (that make up me).
Filomena Rocca Apr 2022
Here, I live, but I'm not living
In this land of no forgiving
My existence is a burden
So I won't try to be a person

Mi loĝas, sed ne vivas
Kaj se eĉ la suno brilas
Bone pli, mi ne ekzistu
Do mi neniel insistu

Wie zu wuhne unne lewe
Unn zu keemols sei vergewe
Ich bin umringt vun die Gretze
Unn kann niemols daerfe schwetze
English, Esperanto, Pennsilvaanisch Deitsch
William Rapp Dec 2019
Deutsch
The language that connects all of us
It’s complex grammar cases difficult
The linguistic struggles cause a big fuss
Rules are held firmly in place by a bolt

Spelling difficulties are not the worst,
As they can be quiet, different, and new
Gosh, this makes me want a good Currywurst
That along with some tasty ethnic brew

Deutsch macht nicht alles einfach, stimmt es so
Aber Deutsch bring uns alle zusammen
Wir haben “Wer? Was? Wann? Warum? Wie? Wo?”
Also ich finde das ich bin verschwa’mn

Maybe it’s for the best, that I don’t learn
For the memories, each does badly burn
Now on a silent summer night
Caught me the melancholy.


I was walking, wandering,
Wondering 'where am I going'
On an empty dusty road
That my legs solidly followed.


Through the shaky street lamps' light,
Just one single word was brought out
By the blackguard of an endless see
Intruded from the deepest embassy.


'Élet', that was the foreign word,
Whose meaning ensnared the world:
La vie, Leben or any Life or birth,
Still just concepts holding little worth.


'Élet' I echoed by laughing,
And passed the road embarrassing
Myself by thinking of that notion
Which had never given me emotion.


A word which filled me with filthy void,
And made me unable to avoid
Falling into a senseless sorrow,
Lowering me lower and more low.


I got to be hardly stressed;
Why this mysterious word pressed
On me so cruelly the wrong,
Making me depressed a life time along.


Even if I should have cried for resort,
I was still walking sine a sort
In my mind that's not a garden of Eden,
Or just I was, by myself, mistaken.


In some or other fairy way,
My road was riding further away;
Just as in Don Quixote's battle of glory,
I was walking against Melancholy.
My very first English poem, written in 2013, Algeria.
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