An ailing sun
Now
Today
Will forge through
The Port straits
Low on the horizon
As red dusk
Mounts over Valletta on his steed
And
All the city pines
And a mantle gray
Covers its face.
Just as a passing posse of
Clouds.
The night’s still on its way.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem