pale lilac bells
with purple throats
swing silent
in the wintery wind
that takes the air
to temperate from tropic;
morning is a smear
of sullen cloud
of muted colours
blended in a melting pot
of green, of grey,
a lone hibiscus
frail and red
just a bloodstain
in the halflight
pretending to be day.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem