Novels and plays lie moribund in drawers.
Poems we need not mention.
All forgotten in the heap
of cinema and websites and sound bites
designed to suffocate
any vestige of imagination.
But some of us still dream that laid away
among these unremembered piles
lies the work of someone
who can write again
the Iliad, or Macbeth, or maybe even
the Bible.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem