The smoking cloud flying East-West
Covers the apex on the Table’s right
Somewhat faster than summer night’s fall
And there it stays as though a crown
On some royal head
Heavenly blue behind the Table,
Orchestral tunes of one million crickets…
And the Metro-Rail train passing below
Always manages to ruin the MOMENT
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem