Flames tremble like orphaned fingers.
Shumukh is searching for a chimerical chord.
Wax bleeds its last alphabet.
Onto the shadow that doesn't remember how to read.
Time exhales a slow mist.
where their light was,
a hollow in the air,
shaped like warmth.
The night closes in—
a dark mirror reflecting
the absence of sparks.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem