He can't see the stars in the city.
A grey cyclorama sky
Lets his music beat back.
En-core, en-core.
The percussion of repercussion
Incites his heart.
The exciting start of an echo.
Fading, fa-ding, fa-
Dim.
His pulse smooths.
Lights.
A defibrillator of nights
he will always remember.
No tights could bring him this kind of devotion.
To what does he owe this
Standing ovation?
He smiles,
Starry eyed.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem