Finer things in life
flow through hands untied
sprinkles of valleys
turn to cold wet alleys
a bruise for but rude
cools the clothed to nude
days are spent in vain
throughout this empty lane
when heads turn and sounds burn
only they shall learn
not to quiver at darknesses foe
gormless and slow
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem