Ah, and this is not the waiting game,
I will not wait for you in the eves
Of trees we once played in
On empty swings
When the daylight becomes auburn
and sets alight the tendrils of my hair
a solid joy in a little girls heart
when so many things are fleeting
i will stand by myself on this blacktop patch
facing that setting sun with all i have
and the glow from the childhood I still perhaps know
will feed me in ways you never could
some things don't need to be written about
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem