April Day
In this day of April
The sky is asleep under sheet
Some flakes like wild birds
Hit the sides and linger.
In front are houses
These brick-made boxes
Have windows, I hate them
Looking jails, having cells, so small
I hate them; hate the walls
Any kind
Be mental; physical.
Residents
Two meters between them
Have showcase in passage
For the shoes and the pots
It is hell.
I hate them; hate the hells
Any kind
Be mental; physical.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem