It's cold outside, corpse cold
Like the cold of ancient armies ghosts.
Tree limbs wavering, leaf-bare, tree limbs dead to the touch.
It is in this winter-killed travesty
That I must sit inside in.
Blanket, sure, and cocoa mug,
Snow boots.
Warm pants.
Rip them off I would,
In front a fire,
On the floor.
Naked I would be.
Naked.
On the floor.
A blanket would be good then,
A blanket and a friend.
Someone to look at me and say
I really like your cabin.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
John, Winter is as lonely as the solitude, but the spirited mind is always warm! !