So what of the lace curtains
and mismatched socks?
Wrinkled log, stray umbrella
browning foliage framing
a faded photo of the Lord?
Will it bring me what I came here to find?
Not tonight.
Tonight, solitude.
Tonight silence.
Tonight, no hands on my hips,
no kiss on my lips,
just me at an old rusty table,
sitting below the Madonna.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem