This same sun,
this same warm, warm sun
shines down on Cannes
and indiscriminately
on me,
sunning beside the trash can
with closed eyes.
I cannot distinguish between
can and Cannes
enveloped so by
warmth and wind.
I only know
that one I can
and the other I can’t,
and somehow,
it doesn’t really matter.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem