….passing through another memory
the drifted memory timed on brinks
flung open like doors,
old women’s chatters,
truth observed,
typewriter of olden times,
a dead Rondeñan sun
steaming hot against life and death,
against itself,
against eyes that sadden
or dreams that are endless,
in newness never returning to oldness….
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem