Cold, wonderfully cold!
On the floor with a single woolen blanket
In mid-November
The pipes gently cough dreadful symphonies,
In full orchestration with the buzzing frigde and the drips from the tap.
Through the paper walls I hear people next door fight
They scream and they fight loudly
I lay on the floor, cold at night.
There’s a small bird clucking at my window
I can see its shadow
Looming large on the sliver of light cast by the moon
Light pitched in one warm line into the corner.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem