He would have taken
that road, but that road
was taken, so he walked
elsewhere, where she
wasn't there, where her
perfume never reached,
where her eyes never
stared, where her lips
never spoke. The road
was lonely, there was
no traffic, no birds sang,
no nothing, but his sure
footsteps on the hard road,
and the echo of them after
he walked. The other road
was where they had once
walked together, where
they had laughed and sang,
the other road was narrow,
and birds chirped and flew,
and she had said: I love you,
love you, love you. Now
all was quiet; this road was
deserted: no traffic came or
people passed or talked, or
she not there to laugh or cry,
and his only companion was
the echo of her voice: why?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem