I always wanted to be a poet
But time intervened,
Swept me away down the urban street
A dance of newspapers and garbage.
Time wasn't kind to me.
I chafed against the curb.
The cement was cruel, the air cold
And loud. And yet
The music of the sirens seduced me.
I wooed
The cold hard stares of the crowd
With shrewd glances.
My love
Tossed back at me by the hard fingers
Of the wind,
And the harder lines of fate
Glows still like a secret ember
In the chamber of my heart.
Between my outstretched hands
Held aloft above the burning can
Between the bottle and the man
A poet warms his hands.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem