Wading through the tar-
It seems November has died
Of some kind of cancer.
Thoughts wash over
Each other like young lovers;
Crashing waves fading.
The light grey skies congeal-
Darkening like blood
Under the skin at about 3pm.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A grim view, natural phenomena turned into points of depression and obsession. Peace, L&T