November 10

comments 5
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This time of year here
my dreams turn to impossible

mountains under their soft
coatings, meters of snow

making unreachable hidden
places, everything is coming

in now so I am going out,
drawn into the thinning woods

at receding hours to run
a trail cloudy with mud,

until my lungs seize up
and my skin turns

red from iced rain, I see
no one else, not even birds

are out, just me and the visible
exhalations of breath,

proof of life hanging over
these modest hills.

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5 Comments

      • I am really into poetry but in my own language which is Persian. And now I am trying to know more about poetry in other languages which is hard but I think I can do it little by little .

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      • To be fair, there’s no shortage of great Persian poets 🙂 There’s something about reading poetry in its own language, though, as there are some thing you can say in one language that just can’t be translated into another

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      • that’s true. I read somewhere that poem is a thing that dies through translation. but there are some good translations too. I am really fond of Nazim Hikmet’s ( great Turkish poet) poems. I read translations and I know a little bit Turkish and I enjoy it. That can happen for English literature either

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