I stand and watch,
fascinated by the movement of leaves before me
as they swirl inside an invisible column of air.
Drawing debris skywards.
No destruction.
Turbulence created by the wind
by objects breaking its passage of flow.
I step forward and enter its centre,
hoping to feel embraced by its presence.
I feel nothing.
I see nothing -
except for leaves lying quietly around my feet.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
picturesque poem I love doing that when I was growing up in a farm until I tried the bigger once which almost suffocated me