Vicky my dear girl,
Why do you roam the streets at night,
Alone, like I?
While others sleep,
Their eyes shut tight.
We gaze upon the Scottish night,
And stars,
And see each one.
They shine so bright,
That we may be forgiven,
For mistaking that our living,
Is nothing more or nothing less than this.
As the sleeper entertain themselves,
With midnight thought of
Paradise and hell,
And all that lies between,
I wonder if they've ever seen,
Edinburgh at half past three.
When gentle winds of the mist fed streets,
Becomes the means by which to breathe.
Now all that's ever come before,
All that will come to be, are we.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem