Moribund day.
Sun dies
and moon inherits the sky behind.
A plane interrupts
the natural starlight,
an angry red
against orange and pink ahead.
The day is now dead.
Long live black ink
and silver lead.
Morpheus did not find
The scribbling insomniac
and the moon-howlers.
Yet now, he knows-
they run in packs
of lone wolves.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem