some people write
saying it runs in the family
it is inside the code
of its blood
corpuscles
it's the gene that makes
the hand write
my papa is a farmer and my
mama is a schoolteacher
no one in the family writes
what i hear is always a chatter
a murmur
a burst of emotions
broken plates
and broken doors
what i hear is always an
explosion
of light bulbs
the doors knew nothing
but slams
and the TV is loud with
horror
i have learned the secret
of silence
and since then
i have decided to write
i write for no one
i am attuned to having no one
this is for myself
and when i am no longer here
someone may read it
and say
This is myself too
and it is me that matters
alone, for i do not expect much
from ears neither from mouths
even from
the hearts.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem