His greatest gift
isn't his to give
but he did
in his own tongue
in his own time
almost in ours
was it Hamlet?
Oedipus?
Ghosts?
A Streetcar Named Desire?
His room is a-clutter
his floor
his desk
his mind
for giftedness
doesn't grow
where there's no
cluttering
and giftedness
even his
adheres
in the giving
what is
or isn't
his
and now is theirs/ours/yours
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem