the tea-urn gaping out the window
of the waiting-room cafe
where drifters crumb-around their saucers
dipping into shadows
at the tea-dregs of the day
while butterflies in weed-flowers
and sleepers on the line
were there to fill in spaces
and take the edge off time
then faces pressed 'gainst windows
pale and shining bright
who would from the platform
free-fall into light
in the branch-line cutting
the grasses grow waist high
and though the rails are broken
they point towards the sky
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem