You seem to have told me that I could see
A thousand things from your windowsill—
But so tomorrow all of those promises will be burning
And the airplanes and your castle too—
My ears will be engulfed by all of the echoes of
The sea shells from your pretty seas—
And then we will go home tomorrow without
Holding hands—and some other man will have
Scaled the mountain that was always meant for
Me—
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem