October Poem by Salvatore Ala
October
Its name is a hood of snails
That have sealed their shells.
It has two eyes fixed on you
Like a saw-whet owl.
It is made of dead cicadas,
An old wind and one drum.
Looked at for a long time
You begin to see falling leaves
In bright blue weather. October
Is a mouthful of wine grapes
Sounding out the burning vine.
Writing it, is to pause with ghosts
In the mist of memory,
Not knowing your own face.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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9/9/2025 7:41:01 PM # 1.0.0
