blank pages stare back at her
a book full of them
feeling uninspired she sits by her window sill
staring at the trees, the houses, the passersby.
she opens the window to get a better look.
the wind whips her unruly black hair around her face,
her breath visible before her.
she leans out of the window
arms outstretched, fingers brushing the wind.
her skin is translucent, ethereal,
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem