Is it anyway of moment
that the lateral wind
may never brush again
in turn our sided faces?
that our fourfold footfall
may never again
scatter thin
the city summer's
leftover leaves?
that those
dark inconstant rooms
will give themselves again
and again
to other faces?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
two sides to every coin, and two truths to every story. I like how his was written. You have a unique style. keep it up. you are good.