pile of concretes protruding; uneven boxes
forming shades of triangle towards my eyes
reaching out like multitudes of begging arms
i stop to see in different angles, it follows me
so as dark clouds overhead moving strangely
illusion; there beauty within grasp of perception
my shadow continue brushing tiny stones below
some misplaced by my weight shifting to and pro
world is in constant motion we're deprive of feeling
maybe, so we can play at daytime; sleep in evening
but then why wind become so cruel to us in october
is it late trying to catch up of its chores before winter
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem