wings of cold came to touch
our faces in early breaking sun
brightness is there with smile
crows were nowhere to be found
plain is silent except whispers
of new budding blades of pines
steam coming out of mouth
of yawning sleepy heads
mist forming over riverbeds
bonfire slow burning warmth
keep us company enjoying time
it's sunday our feelings calm
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem