the church bell rings
at 5 in the morning
the door in the kitchen
makes the sound of its opening
the brown maiden starts
sweeping the leaves on the streets
last night's howls of the storm
still haunts
silence is precious
so nil, so rare
the modernity of technology
perhaps, disowns it
and those who dislike it
grow the madness inside
their minds, like cancers
without cure
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
liked it, very good with nice flow and meaning.. love to read it