Empty, desolated neighborhood, every one gone away on some
errand or another.
Garage doors left wide open, yawning their contents into
the hot afternoon sun.
Gentle winds pushing faster every now and then, wiggling
the grass and weeds in a rhythmical melody heard only by
this poet in the silence of one.
Hearing all the soft whispers, falling around, allowing
the frequency of each to drop in on wave lengths unsung
by anyone on earth.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem