Winter at last
Winter came and we all complain
Even pen:
'It is cold; I am dead.'
But each one in own way.
Numb are toes, my fingers, badly pale
Eyes blind in cloud of exhale
Turning mist, smother!
And sky Gringo; is bastard
(Ice-figured, sharp-dressed, is blue and grey.)
Looks and laughs
(As do the one percent who use us as slaves.)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem