A Missionary Bulletin – there are thousands - was
dug up, I started translating; it became a sacred duty
with Carnival of the Animals, Saint-Saens, playing in
my ears, the old depression of sitting alone does not
plague me in the open-plan office; this routine translation
requires very little concentration, the soothing sounds of
the swan drifting downstream carrying my mind along,
ensconced in missionary news, enfolded in a quiet
cocoon, happy amongst my genteel colleagues, filled
with weekend expectations, the seeds of content and
beauty I sowed by enjoying an ice-cream breakfast this
morning are starting to bloom into a nirvana of the most
exquisite peace and contentment, making me wonder
who this stranger in my mind might be; bidding her to
stay, keeping out the passionate rebel who used to hate
translating the interminable Swiss Bulletins…
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem