I like the shops when everyone is gone
the library when no one is reading
the church when nobody is praying
I walk in, tip toe, careful not to disturb
my friend, and it is all a silent poem
a novel about to be written, a blank sheet
a prayer to no god because the soul
is empty, the page is empty, the stores
are empty, this heart is empty, but
in the silence of these, these bits of home
these pieces of life, these desperate
graspings, something in me, shouts
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I'm the same way, Ben. It must be a poet thing, maybe? Wonderful writing as always.