The sounds of motors
in this small city where i work
as store clerk
is drowning my thoughts of you
you are the sounds of falling leaves
and tired winds from the sea
and i am beginning to miss you again
you are my cushion on the chair
the thread to my needle
the porcelain cup to my coffee
the window that is closed because of
the storm
the sounds of traffic is killing me
the cruelty of strangers is asphyxiating
the distance is blinding
the nights have become my bed of ghosts.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem