Gray skies hang low, heavy with whispers,
each drop a soft breath against chilled earth.
Trees shiver, their limbs stripped bare,
reaching out into the quiet ache of November.
Puddles gather, silent mirrors,
holding the blurred glow of distant lights-
a world washed clean, waiting,
as the last leaves drift down like secrets.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem