Old battered box
in dusty attic
falls at my feet
spills out your old love letters
(how fortuitous)
like froth on a wave
they wash around
where I stand
now
the years flooding back
this the bric a brac
of how we used to be
the flotsam & jetsam
of what was and what could have been.
My mind
a lonely seagull
crying in a stormy sky.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem