Maybe
The evening is as old as ourselves.
Maybe it was always here
Hidden in the folds of our silence.
Evening's garden.
Inside us: the odor of tears.
Melancholies as subtle as smell.
Slowly day parts
Leaving us
Alone with our shadows,
Alone with our evening.
---
From Aged Mirrors - trilogyofthemirrors.com
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem