Their mirthful midnight conversations,
silenced by the light of the day.
Eyes that long to behold
condemned to look astray.
Long after a stolen glance
a slight smile lingers on,
It tags the corner of their lips
and winks slyly at their con.
Quivering hello, the sound of which
smells of an old romance,
only sign they met each other
on purpose, not by chance.
A room lit up by mere presence
made ordinary by banal talk.
Bound by a string of kindred thoughts
away, away they walk.
Strangers?
You could call them that!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem