November smells like an
empty house,
like decaying dreams,
all pumpkin orange and
burnt sienna.
I search for you through
the ashes of roses.
My eyes are the color
of despair.
I can still taste you;
that last kiss, clover sweet.
And without you, the days
dawn gray and lonely, like
an orphan.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem