A junkie shivers under the sun, the poet
scans the streets searching for that one word.
The senile midnight street walker rests her
head for the day. The old war veteran spits on
his medals, rubbing the memories until they shine.
We all look upwards when a plane passes.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
And perhaps we are all looking even higher Vincent. Lovely poem and I love the last line. Love Ernestine XXX