It is not a sunny day,
and a sinister breeze
stirs the clouds.
The insinuation comes
before the hurricane,
like dusk before darkness.
The heat and damp air
are here to inform me,
to warn of the inevitable.
There is no storm today,
there is only an omen,
a hint from hushed shadows.
The sound is a sigh of grief,
far way and faintly heard,
a whispered premonition.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
So delicately hinted what to come, a real art, Barry. Into notice for translation.