outside my window
the blur of a november fog
hastens up eternal ghosts, hades-like,
from gardens bleeding with pungent odours.
there are the remembrances of sins
unexcitably gone to dismal wastes
and waters of stale and frothy scum.
John, excellent piece of wrining. You conjure up a good atmosphere in so few words.10/10 Regards, Ian
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
powerful imagery as biting as senses it engages