The roads
move around the side
of high mountains
fog hover like an ocean
upon the valleys
at night the cold
seeps inside the skin
and bones
the pine trees are tall
and the rocks dress with moss
we gather around a campfire
of dried pine wood
we sit upon smooth stones
we share the sanctity of silence
this is the place
which time wants to take back
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem