A night-time of secret insomnias burn
in the streets’ windows,
fatigued artefacts of the dead day gone,
faces in a bathe of lamps
twisted in awkward pretence of sleep,
playing dead as the day
animates the night’s genuine dead;
office faces, overalls,
fresh out of the nakedness dreams
and ignorant of when
that coldness soothes the earth
before the day breaks.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Stellar Imagery...Crisp, tight structure employed. Solid Work. ~ F.J.R. ~