Walking home, I saw through a basement window.
It was
like dark
Clusters of cellar spiders, the orchard
in the courtyard of the cold wet floor.
I couldn't go anywhere else,
even though it was raining
that night
and you were waiting.
It's not like you're not used to it by now.
I remember going home
to when we first met
and I asked you:
'What does it mean? '
and you told me,
in your Scottish accent,
'It doesn't mean anything'.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem