before i became you
i always see to it that any broken thing
is repaired
nothing is spared
i thought
that every part and nook
of this house
must be perfect
time is not only the healer
of wounds
it is the giver of
our destination
it changes us
into chameleons
now i will have no more time
to repair broken
things
when i see a broken leg
of the table
i have learned to ignore
it
shrug my shoulder and
say
oh the days shall repair
that leg
oh i have other better things
to do
oh i only pass this place
once
i am not destined for
something permanent
for something steady
and unchangeable
i can resist
and has given up that
instinct to
recreate
and reconstitute
i only have my mind left
and i can manage
even without it
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem