it is a damp,
dark
depressing place.
the sun
has no need to shine there.
it requires
no
visitors.
peat moss
and
compost
adorn
the
landscape.
row
after
row
gleaming white
miniature
tombstones
growing in concerned captivity.
old caretaker,
frayed sack in hand
moves
carefully,
joints
creaking
in the dank air.
one
by
one
with
fingers
nimble
he selects
only
those
predestined
to vacant
this
graveyard
growing
in the
putrid pool
of
cimmerian isolation.
(9-21-2015)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Very nice.Written in a sweet style.Liked it.