The crunch under my boot,
remnants of a faraway summer
golden, brown and crimson
already disappearing
as I kick my way along
in this autumn chill.
Crackle and drag
of blistered sound
while I walk towards winter
is as addictive to my feet
as bubble wrap to my fingers:
deliciously futile thrill.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem