At last, I had made it, after traveling through many lands and
seen the infant moon, I was here in my street, it was empty;
curtain-less windows, no one inside, the wind of time blew
and autumn leaves, hard as metal, scratched names on asphalt.
When I looked up faces, in windows came into view, only to
wane when leaves erased their names; and tiny twisters, only
a mere handful of dust, twirled dismally around my feet.
Tried to leave, but was lamed by my past and had to see it
through. I was in a house looking down, but also in the street
looking up, a leaf scratched my name in asphalt, closed my
eyes didn’t want to see it erased. The wind suddenly ceased
as a mummified scream came to rest in the dust. Free!
Turned saw my vale, green and as familiar as the donkey in
the shade of the carob tree; my past was finally laid to rest.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem