You leave, but the snow finds you.
Cobbles reflect ice and steps.
(I write, the street is the back of a reptile)
You follow the snow,
the windows make you a saint,
you are in a church.
You are well-wrapped in cloth,
you stride with intent.
Your heart is an unformed pump,
you are a fireplace now cold and ashen.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem