The road hasn’t ended yet
The harsh dry leaves earlier rolled over and over in a low lying wind
scratching the surface with a rattle
It’s the death of autumn
The only colours left belong to the sunrise and sunset
Burnings that scream too loud, too fast
Smell has gone
Eyes are listless as damp mud
There is no music
Just my manic little bird song
The view is wider, bleaker
And I harbour the memory of a pomegranate
You are still, secretly locked away
A voice recorded like the scratch of the autumn leaves on the road.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem