I look at the tiny
Patch of sky
That reminds me of
The wide spaces I used to know
I long to fly
Over them again
If only
In dreams
In the park
The squirrels are not afraid
The damp smell of the trees
Puts a spring in my step
And I can forget
The sound of the city
Rushing outside
Like a clashing of knives.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem