The old women
at 4: 58 dawn are
in the streets
again
with lighted
lamps on their
hands
they walk the
cold pavements
and chant
their old prayers
round and round
the kiosk
until the first
morning light
arrives warming
their
wilting hands
the furrows on
their foreheads
their worn cheeks
and slowly like
turtles
they converge
inside an empty
chapel of this
quiet village
where i write
where i live.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem