I'm sitting in my kitchen.
It is now late spring
And this painful year
Is now beginning to blossom,
Hopefully into something good.
As I look at this painting
Of old men, sitting on a bench,
At the Headland: Hartlepool,
I wonder what they are talking
About as they laugh and gaze
Fondly out to sea. What dreams
Still inspire them? What final
Hopes do they have for this world
For this brief life under the sun?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem