The sky is grey,
As am I this very day;
It weeps, but I do not.
The sun hides,
While I sit besides
My window, lost in thought.
The mist hangs thick about the trees,
And I grow rich with swift unease
Over things that I forgot.
The tea grows cold
While hours unfold,
Growing old with the mildew and rot.
The stars don't shine,
But I don't mind.
That seems to happen a lot.
Only yesterday
The sky was grey,
And with it I wept not.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem