Sipping on wine,
that is black,
it's quiet,
cars pass by,
a distant sound,
as if drowned,
I feel,
as if real,
behind music,
that softly plays,
I am remiss,
that I still miss,
things that were,
so I sip some more,
sometimes,
almost latenight,
is a hard wave,
you either sink,
or you swim.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem