In the city by the sea;
the sea that looks like a lake.
At the station, in the tunnel
where it winds through the concrete vein.
The flicker of light, the rustle of sand, the dried leaves…
I thought love was forever —
it was not.
Life: cruel like a warm summer breeze
the winter always kills —
always — at last — kills.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem