Rustic rug,
the multitude
from a once green canopy
fallen foliage rustling corpses
a bronze battalion brushed into piles,
casualties of the changing seasons.
Wind challenges the work of the road sweeper
resurrecting their corpses
a sort of brief immortality.
A labour of lost endeavour
A man alone with a broom in the rain
working with the elements
while the leaves are washed
and the side walk becomes slippery with their skin.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem