Passion lays dead beside me,
Nothing feels full to even make it
half enough.
I wait as seconds linger,
and shadows scrape me off
four walls.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Where is the passion When shadows crawl the walls Displacing silent needing To sighs, till morning calls? The answer may be close at hand. The Poets Tree *wink* Keith Allen