we were good to the birds
until their wings fell down
and they stopped to appear in the nests
we licked their wounds climbing the branches
caressing the wet fluff left
it's possible to get used to silence
such as the morning rising
cold groan of the floor wakes up the sore body
only coffee does not taste the same
bittersweet mixes with the wet terrace
we looked out the sounds picking up fallen leaves
until we stumbled over the felled tree
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem