so you really read my poems?
are you then
reading me?
are you going inside my
heart and mind?
are you a blood corpuscle now
traveling inside my veins?
are you another strange thought
on a journey to my
brain?
are there lapses or
synapses?
do you see my heart
beating inside
my body?
i guess i have to say
i am sorry
it is never me.
I am the other people.
I am the old man who
lost a house
I too am the old woman
who lost a son
in the war
I am too the child
abandoned in the street
Sometimes i am
the moon resting on the
bosom of a river
Last night i was the
sea breeze
refreshing drying the tears
of a woman
abused
Tonight i am someone else
that i met in the
street
soon i will choose
whether i should be a
carpet or
the tick
so will you still read me?
you want to enclose me
in my own work?
sorry, you called the
wrong number.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem