a mysterious voice from the crevice
softy, gently teases him, it will be 2017
your time to go, and he listens intently like
a child to his mother holding his hand
with the strength of an iron pole and he smiles
to the air, gently, softly, like a wind to his
hair, it is time to go, i know, he keeps saying,
and muttering later, at any rate, what do i have here?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem