The cool touch of winter frosted the window
the candle's lit wave washed over the glass
in a sheen of droplets
like pristine show flakes
and the whisperer drew down to remark
on the weather and
suddenly the visions-remained
no where to be seen...
Why now? - there was no window
the glass merely concrete slabs and
the droplets coarse sweat on my brow.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Ah... I have drifted away from my usual writing and found another style to fiddle with.. (I've been reading Keats and some guy I forgot the name)