The quiet streets are filled with angst. Secrets, lies, and plots are kept silent in the still shadows. A little girl has lost her doll and there is nothing beyond an open door the young man has decided to open. Above these sick and dying people flies a watcher. His eyes are as black as the River of Death and his wings are like black water that curl around him in the coldest of winters.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem