Lonely, empty bottles, staring at me from shelves of disuse.
Watching as they are sent in images to my mind.
Delving into thoughts of emptiness, allotted to images
transfigured in rags of bountyous relief.
Never touching bottles, not wanting their emptiness to fill
me also.
Standing back, emotion draining from the life I was meant to
live.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem