Dark gray with peppered
white
and blue.
The air is thin, fine,
A well rosined bow
stretched
Lightly touching well crafted land
Slightly burnt, scarred.
There is no sound except
The music of wind blowing past your ears
That make your nose red and breath short
On top of Stonewall Peak.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem