Cold. Stars. A breath you can see.
Hills stand round a village like ignored guests
at a reception.The lights of the street fail; they obey not.
The second; the sleet forces my face down
to the wet road. It is nearly time.
The end; I return to a home that kicks me.
Cold. The stars ice. Midnight.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem