I'll greet you with open hands
while your tears burn my palms,
I'll watch you land amidst sprawling faces,
gracing them with your carpet cold.
I'll wish for your departure
when December turns to January,
and your icy fingers tickel me through.
I'll miss you when under my feet
the mush of yesterday's leftovers spill,
Then I'll smile as memories picture
You here.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem