a few of us
soon shall meet
on a side of a hill
where we will
build a fire
where we send
smoke to heaven
where we stare
at the flame and
reminisce
what love we
once had
what violence too
was there
how time was
both saved and
wasted
at dawn when
the wood is finally
consumed by
fire when the flame
is gone
when what we have
are mere ashes
and cold winds
we then begin
the ritual
we sort out what
we soon will write.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem