On a swivel chair
that swivels less smoothly now,
sunlight hurts my eyes.
what was once my joy
I think, I think,
how has it come to this?
My now favorite celestial body
merely doing its job
like me,
and not like me.
drudgery,
survival,
niche?
Looking back at the window, there a reflection
too bright for my morning.
(January 2010)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem