an old shed leans crookedly in the tall grass.
a door is lifted and opened.
like a warn vinyl record to the needle rusty hinges
snap and crackle as they turn.
between slight variations in tone metallic
yesterdays speak through hinged lips.
i am apart from the decay they say.
now little is inside except some dust with a
few oddities scattered around.
a dented paint can that had been knocked over,
the paint lieing on the floor in a dry puddle.
splintered out in ornate pattern it relects in
sort of a greenish blue color.
it seems to innocent and pure for its surroundings.
the paint speaks through its flat chipped throat lowly.
i am apart from the decay it say's.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Mr Martin I like this one, truly well written