Drab sarcophaguses at night’s edge
slide silently into wintry, flake white openings;
a dark eye of a still snowy heart beats,
lost at the centre of fast breeding diatribes
where no solace can be found.
Who calls for more when there is less?
Dark shadows of collective guilt flicker
in rooms where no house wolf ever ate.
The dark, frozen air smells of more snow,
free is he who can go without regret.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Well-crafted with an excellent choice of words! Will add to my favs. Thanks, roshni.