I could feel that a scar that makes you scared Because I am awake when my time awaits A liar to a liar is a failure whose cause never fades In my country people are very nice My dentist has a favor for fried rice In the same evening I can cook My brain becomes a fishing hook

Hello! Yes, my favourite poem is The Waste Land, by T.S. Eliot. It is one of the great classics of English literature and I first came across it studying English literature at university. I love how it reflects the state of decadence in Europe after the first World War. Another poem that is a close favourite is England in 1819 by Percy Bysshe Shelley, which I had to read out loud in my phonetics class at uni and I love for its revolutionary nature. My favourite poem in my first language, Spanish, is Arte Poética by Jorge Luis Borges, which deals with the passing of time.

一样是明月 一样是满山灯火 只有人不见 梦似的挂起 The English translation of this poem is: The moon is still so bright; Beyond the hills the lamp sheds the same light, The sky besprinkled with star upon star, But I do not know where you are.

Camilla, It's fantastic topic. I used to read poems when I was at the university. but The most I liked is (( Ballad Of Birmingham )) it's emotionally talked about a mother with her daughter Ballad of Birmingham BY DUDLEY RANDALL (On the bombing of a church in Birmingham, Alabama, 1963) “Mother dear, may I go downtown Instead of out to play, And march the streets of Birmingham In a Freedom March today?” “No, baby, no, you may not go, For the dogs are fierce and wild, And clubs and hoses, guns and jails Aren’t good for a little child.” “But, mother, I won’t be alone. Other children will go with me, And march the streets of Birmingham To make our country free.” “No, baby, no, you may not go, For I fear those guns will fire. But you may go to church instead And sing in the children’s choir.” She has combed and brushed her night-dark hair, And bathed rose petal sweet, And drawn white gloves on her small brown hands, And white shoes on her feet. The mother smiled to know her child Was in the sacred place, But that smile was the last smile To come upon her face. For when she heard the explosion, Her eyes grew wet and wild. She raced through the streets of Birmingham Calling for her child. She clawed through bits of glass and brick, Then lifted out a shoe. “O, here’s the shoe my baby wore, But, baby, where are you?”

Me too. I believe it's one of his lesser known poems, except among scholars and the literati, of course. I hope you enjoy it. When you get to the part about his reflected image in a "wreath of fern," think of the laurel leaves used to crown the heads of celebrated poets.