O l d h a b i t : t h e s i e s t a (I)
In the garden of our years,
Its faded hammocks with the light sleep of the old,
We lie for a while
Above the pain of the ground.
* * *
The hours galloped on their glass horse of habit,
Their fragile silences
Circling, like sentinels,
The peril of untamed melancholy.
* * *
My evenings
Come back home to find their habits,
Like a sad little man
With the last tear of a salmon.
* * *
Mondays,
The child of eternal drizzle,
Wade in small puddles
Pulling my years on a string.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem