when i begin to write the words
i pause
for some regrets and i look
at another window
where life is
unfolding a scene
it is something lustful out there
but i watch closely
what is it in them that clicks
to a switch of my flesh
and then i write again
because outside it is colder
and the temperature is freezing
some muscles
and then i write again
closing another window
i go inside
and open another door
i find the words
but i stop right there
right here
the words that need only to
be spoken
they cannot be written.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem