A street winked.
Darkness.
The fading smear of a wall.
A darting bridge.
A lonely dog.
Hurrying asphalt.
A company of smokers.
It is hard to come to terms with:
the world only absently watches
as I, windowed, nightwards vanish.
You know, sometimes it's like the biggest luxury to stay windowed.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Wonderful poem. Death is like being windowed.