At dusk when the weavers frolicked in the back yard
and were picking at small crumbs and seeds
some were yellow and others red
and I did imagine
that again as a child
I was playing at the march
but the darkness of the night came quickly
and suddenly the back yard was empty
with the fireplace of the neighbour
blowing a cloud of coal smoke into the air.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem