he was telling me today
how you'd sit
facing the street
every orange morning.
in your yellow chair
with white hair
and white cup
of black coffee.
elbows on your knees
hands folded,
your coal fingers
holding a single cigarette.
one long drag...
and you'd let the fire burn
itself out
to the skin
staring into smoldering space
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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