The smell of humidor
Charmed the old house and
Frightened me as I ascended the
Narrow stairwell that gentle
October morning.
The song of autumn was playing
Low, and with astute grace.
Silent, the royal smell wafted between Cuba
And Denmark,
Across fat rank grass of fecund roots.
I snuffled through fogs of earliness,
Webbed by clamping cold.
Cigars without smoke took over from the
Humidor and hugged my lungs.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem