 Belonging
Please, would you proofread my poem.
Belonging
Late in the night I use to open my bedroom window
letting the cold Swedish winter come in.
All my neighbours are sleeping,
hard working people and old pensioners,
spending their last years on this forlorn planet.
Tomorrow, they will rush to their jobs
and walk their dogs.
They are part of this world.
They know what they are doing.
As for me, I belong to nowhere.
I am like this could wind,
entering spaces for a short while
and in the next moment,
trembling over silver birches outside. |