Night comes in with a shy reluctance
and is allowed to stay in this village,
but only for so long.
Before night can get comfortable
it's swept, into manageable piles,
by the elegant lamps edging the
knotted streets.
Bricks are neatly stacked by anxious workmen,
nets are stowed on fishing boats
and the sun is hoisted to the mountain top.
Lonely night is quickly sent home,
the village too impatient
to let her linger.
(2009)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem