A ghost truth
levels down,
the traffic. You enter
into catatonic stage.
Rage and anguish
will ask,
for the price of blood
flown down the river.
Listening
with the eyes. Leaffall,
luteus, music of descent
on grass.
A dust storm
settles on sill. I will
look through the window, at
a setting sun, unadored.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem