Sprawling in the foggy
armpit of the alleyway
dustbins like groggy
drunks in disarray
have disgorged themselves.
Whilst, all around, furry silences squeak as blurred
shapes, tiptoeing with the daintiness of elves,
emerge to feast on what has been disinterred.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem