Boxed up, bagged up,
filling the spare room.
Not merely possessions,
they're harbingers of doom.
Books, piled high,
an old DVD tower.
I sit and pack,
this lonely, Godless hour.
Trinkets of a life lost,
of a person now long gone.
I sort these things and order them,
for life must still go on.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem