She awaits quietly playing with her stray plaits,
Rococo of the sunbeams get hotter than the warmth,
Masons in her thought busy with building stories,
She gazes at her calm phone with a vengeful sight,
The world is silent with, no one has the mouth,
The trees are stable as the wind has the break,
The night crickets forget to rub their tiny wings,
The digital clocks are muted while she longs,
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem