The orange edge of dawn
Settles whitely upon
The quaint frosted lake
In November, again.
The thick forest outside
Our abandoned city
Is littered with
Sleeping pinecones, I-
Count their buried bodies in the
Sheet of snow, smiling.
Thousands of poems
Written like this-
Thousands of lives
Lived like mine-
Yet I never grow weary
Of writing them,
-Of living.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem