You do not expect glass to burn,
letting out the fire trapped in panes
white light having been caught before.
But it does.
They say you can see the flames
as far away as Brighton.
The end of an age.
A widow in a frame of
melted lead and cast iron.
Flowers of smoke.
A fallen bird,
with ribs of a serious time.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem