Tempered moments
nested in time, and
slim shavings of time regained
bones in cold spaces
a heap of souls'
robbed glances
that last saw dusted tears
in cool summer soils,
beady teeth, rags and empty dreams.
Yorick, you're the foil,
spare some antics
amongst this waltz of sorrow,
before spring tapers into numbness.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem