It all breathes at the start,
there, the abandoned cart.
Here, the careless ease
the solitary fatigue
the softness of flight
your pupils alight
on a quiet road, winter night
the street light, on
then off, then on
then off, then leaves
in the breeze, circling
it all. The visceral silence
of autumn's call.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem