As snow falls over my name,
my life seems to sleep
with the roots and the frozen sap
of winter
My words are icicles,
sadly hung on the silent
that inhabits me,
and the verses that I promised
shred into the air
The spectre of a tree
takes root at my door,
the hours have been piling up
like bricks in the walls
that isolates me,
while winter remains
anchored on my dreams.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem