Sitting on my window sill,
waiting for the cold wind,
to blow the snow,
in my direction,
then suddenly,
in my eyes,
appear the attraction.
The frozen street,
slow faded way,
and in my mind,
only shadows,
I can see,
in the white,
snowy town.
The moors,
where so empty,
and the north wind,
blowing so strong,
around the hills.
Ghost's,
were walking free,
in York and Whitby,
the Humber bridge,
was busy as usual,
as everybody.
were on they back home.
Busy day on the m62,
busy night ahead,
between Sheffield
and Doncaster too,
Christmas is near,
the busy meadows,
is spitting fear.
Fisherman's,
on their way
to the pubs,
after a miserable,
cold day in the bay's,
and Scarborough,
is awaiting,
the summer day.
But when the times,
will come,
everybody will wake up,
make theirself,
happy and proud,
with parties, celebrations
and streets bonfire,
be aware everybody,
this is,
the great Yorkshire.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem