It's not night,
But rather an evening,
As the sky waves
its arms gracefully
Waiting for someone
who never came,
But an echo
of his well-being.
Is this his habit to come
or an absence that persists?
Within those distant promises,
The wind changes direction,
observing the same scene.
Let's walk with the breeze, my friend,
And see if he appears somewhere
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem