A finger of darkness
a pool of despair
a wanderlust begotten
is anyone there.
Shadows like monsters
from a different age
crouch in the corners
in a closing day’s page.
Shadows of moving
shadows of still
shadows of being
and buildings fill.
In door and alleyway,
they multiply
in wait to enshroud
the closing hours.
7 January 1979
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
good poem shadows waiting