It comes in the night a bright white blanket dusted with orange street lights
so perfect in its complicity covering grime, holes, cracks and wishes.
The crisp night air freezes tears on cheeks before a gloveless hand can wipe
and while a city sleeps soft North winds make deft drifts along empty streets.
You stare out with wonder not wishing to step forward or leave your trail
but the future is forward far from the warm safety of long lost rooms
there are no longer recognised paths to follow and steps are cold and unsure,
gazing behind as your trail slowly fades and the first snow continues to fall
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem