Hours made of dusk.
The last harbor of dreams.
We invent
Our last boat.
It's late in our soul.
We still don't know
What is more important:
The way we lived
Or the way we die.
Twilight, so close to death.
Everything seems useless,
Even the soul.
- -
From Aged Mirrors - trilogyofthemirrors.com
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem