there is a certain sadness
reserved for loneliness
which presents itself
through boredom
and empty,
rustling fields
under a drowsing,
lunar eye.
gradually, as one
removes himself
from the city
the streetlights turn
to stars
buildings to burnt trees.
the low rumble of
aircraft
is rare and fantastic
like the yawning
of a giant
in a small boy's dream
(autumn 2005)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem