A poem

A wanderer’s stick is the broom in my mother’s hand.
My grandfather has wandered all around the word,
sweeping.
Stooping.

The whole village’s planting carrots in the fields.
Glimmering oil lamp. The calmness’
crying.
Trembling.

The countryside’s fool on a meter high box.
Dialing on a plate. A child is
waking.
Laughing.
I don't think it's bad. I like it.
Maybe I have to read this one again to be able to comment on, to get the main idea.
Students: Are you brave enough to let our tutors analyse your pronunciation?
I agree with Woodward; this one is quite nice.