It is you again
on the same place,
only there are less of them
to expect you.
Their number
is getting smaller, too.
While they remain silent
with their eyes made of glass,
monotonous rain of forgiveness
is washing you off
all their memories.
As no one
can give more
than one has.
Vida Nenadic
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
...well expressed...........thanks