an old man
a black book
a cigarette
and some smoke
a room
a black suit
a table and a footstool
a poetry to read
and then
a sound sleep....
there are dreams that follow
soon
but like his grand
days of youth
he will find it hard to remember..
his days and nights
are nothing but matters of waiting
and waiting
all these
drag.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem