Grey streaked walker in the mist
Oaken branch within your fist
Cautiously your ankles twist
You make this reason to exist
Where the ditches meet the filelds
You stop to rest your aching heels
Caught by shafts of streaming light
To warm the coldness of your night
The limping dog - your sole embrace
leads you at his stumbling pace.
A random word for passers by
But no real greeting in their eye
For all your joy has passed them by
They walk with death yet wonder why?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem