The wall
Plaster, flat, soft
A frame
And a photo talks
I hear it
Read the plaque
Date, angle
And the time's mood
I read
'Right after I woke up, '
And goes on
Breeze passes by my side
And my hand
Busy setting a kettle on fire
And I blow
Flames struggle with wetness
Of the wood
The wall
No more plaster, flat, soft
Is the living mountainside
And my breath makes cloud
From the cold in the eyes
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem