Changing World
The island it too low and the ocean is
a stalking monster,
washes the village road at high tide.
Coffins come up from damp ground
set sail at sunrise, only stone crosses
remain like ship-less anchors and
names are slowly washed away.
It is hard to leave your ancestral home
romanticised and dead.
A summer full of sadness, a longing
for other summers drowned by the sea.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem