The sun has slipped its grip
Upon the heavy evening;
Too soon that which
Was boldly polychromatic
Will be rendered grayscale
As the sneak-thief, darkness,
Extends nicotine-stained fingers
To grasp ever tighter
The last few red coppers of sunset
And unkind night pickpockets
Precious gold of the day.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem