Looking to the skyline, seeing black clouds lined up in
rows just above the darkening horizon.
Being dispersed with orange-yellow spaces of sky between
them, interrupting their soldier-like barricades standing
at attention.
Remainder of the sky is white and light blue, stretching
across sight into imagination, like the skin of a drum
about to be used to coincide with inner rhythms soon to be
played.
Shadows of trees and houses, vehicles and garbage cans,
lining the sides of our streets in this little horseshoe
corner of our big city.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem