The sky is cleared
the sun is out
with its flare trimmed
the tone is loud.
The trees wearing smile
bought at cheap cost
birds flying high up
without looking lost
Yet after the closing act
some sombre cloud stayed
peeking under the horizon curtain
keeping an incognito face
Selfish winds blowing gibberishly
swinging moods here and there
privileged ones strode royally
sombre ones were scarce
soon the infernal trumphet
of morning hustle flickered
with it the hoax hope
of bird, trees went into abyss
The echo of silence
resonated through the moor
desolate face of sombre cloud
reappeared out of the blue
with no eyes objectifying it
crawled onto the stage
projected its shallow glory
through its pain stricken tears.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem