Fall's droppings unraked,
Spacious benches with no sitters,
Rusting swings, no one's dashing,
Not a crumb for the gulls to contend.
Full sodas, unopened bags of chips,
No homeless man bothered to pick.
It's only halfway to midnight
But the air is stenched, pitch black.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem