The loss sleeping
inside the clock
smiles dourly
at the glum silhouette
of dawn. It nudges
the stirring eyes,
says it is real
and real tarries
the windows and
the skin like a
shiver or a touch,
perhaps forced.
But no one knows
when you wake up
and begin to cook
for the day, your
hands move
automatically
as if programmed to
that servitude
and you know you
love it and hate it
and you don't do it
for either, it's that
you don't know what
else to do with that
loss and that real
that has taken away
your imagination.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem