old-town at the cafe-bar
he plays guitar and sings
maybe he's an Angel
or just a guy with wings
it's how the way his words
hesitate in flight
settle on his feather-tips
then drift into the night
when they see a rainbow
of colours in his eyes
is it an illusion
an electrical device
behind the bar they've seen it all
no-one seems to care
but in unobtrusive setting
eglise across the square
there's a roll of plastic netting
and scuff-marks on the wall
and a few collecting feathers
convinced they broke his fall
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem