Eileen left the town
One snow flake is falling
Vertically
Toward an oak tree yellow laying leave.
The streets are deserted,
Except from the cold.
I am looking from the windows;
My only escape.
My coffee cup is waiting for my hand
To warm it.
My young journal is afraid of
The shrinking table.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem