A blue carbon pen,
Confined in an oak box,
Consoled itself
A CD of Steward Little,
Dangling on a cliff edge,
Poised on its case
A maroon crayon stick,
abandoned beside
A sketch of a car it created.
A yellow stout mug,
Parched coffee staining its rim,
Perched on window sill.
Yesterday's Toronto Star,
Leering at me yelled,
'Read me- now at least! '.
A red covered novel,
Its pages ripped off,
Stared sullenly upwards.
Aloof and forgotten,
Calling for attention,
They summon me mute.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem