The heat haze rose from a tarmac lake
on a strange October's eve.
An Indian Summer's sun would bake
and dry each newly fallen leave.
The mornings still brought damp and dew
and mist to hide the Hills of Mourn
Libido's lamp flares up and through
till next June when your last is born.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Stunning imagery Dan and very well written poem!