Every shoe pointed to the West
I couldn’t see the point
The lamp posts turned away from me
But every car had its horns ready
The paper crumbles
At the sound of church bells
It’s deafening, no, not the bells
But the outcome of its resonance;
I trip at the curb
A cut at my lip bleeds profusely
I taste it in my mouth
Ah, metal, with a hint of Christmas candy
The birds take flight
The trees dig themselves deeper
The skies withdraw, the night settles
Moon, take over and sleep over this city
Seek the lost stories
Bury the painful treasures
I offer to you a trembling hand
As I, in turn, search for the lost flicker
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem