What whispers
Around corners,
Through closed doors,
Warding off furniture
In a cluttered Mausoleum?
Who moans in your bed
When your lashes-stretched wide
Pulling every strand of gossamer
From the ceiling corners into them-
Assure your heart's panting
That the stirring body beside you
Isn't dead?
And what ignites the cats' eyes
When in sparse moments
They seem dread-filled
Staring down a presence-less hallway?
It's the ghosts-
Always among the living,
Failing to forget,
Dreaming passionately,
But living coldly-
Tickling the spine
And the whiskers
The same.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
As they brush by you to tickle the hair on the back of your neck; does your Cat smile then too? Alek, Thanks for writing your poem.