Numb and alone,
Like objects collecting dusk.
The wire table once crisp and white,
Rusting from harsh loneliness.
A windechime inside,
Incapable of singing.
No wind to inspire it's simple music.
A mirror too dusdy to see out of,
The reflection of a cole heart.
A once vibrant painting,
Dull when no one passes to admire it.
Morbidly silent,
Not a rustle of leaves.
Nor a bird's melody.
No Cheerful skip of a happy heart.
Just the slow, morbid silence of an empty alone.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem