and then death came and lived
with us
behind the peeling
paint
in the night-whistle of
a train
inside light bulbs
dark
between your legs
it curved
around your hips
floated
lightly, under falling
brown leaves
it rested in the dark ash of
burnt grasses
we learnt to hold still
and admit
its presence now
and then.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem