The wind is a holocaust
Memory seems mired
in spate of doubt
How many winters do we traverse
with the wind's reminder
and, darkness
Scalding nights will know
Dogs will know
This winter will it be different
as your eyes refuse recognition of the past
Is life light as you lie buried
in interiors of the self?
How I wish I were like you,
my friend, as this desire to search
is another moribund quest
Only poetry in this winter time
Can answer, stamped with
skeleton marks.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem