a dead branch
the cruel wind
has broken
too dry and too light
to hold
its mast
in the gust
something escaped
crushing into the air
left crumbled
into pieces
by the gust of wind
everything wiped away
not even a smudge
of existence
of your fragile days
the power and the fury
it's the time running away
one and the other
like a mysterious force
who can after all sweep up
every little piece
and throw away
everything
that was
not leaving behind
even the memory of
what was
(transl. by Urszula Sledziewska)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem