Sometimes,
the door is shut.
There’s no entrance: a wall.
My friends’ songs, a long way off,
rising to the place my heart can’t reach,
are the voices of strangers.
I want to know if He’s waiting
for me to speak –
to kindle a confession
He has never heard:
words spoken to the three walls where they meet
in these tri-angled cold corners.
Yesterday,
there was an angel near me,
patiently translating tongues and shouts:
all day
was Easter-easy as our praise.
Today,
my lonesome soul is choked with
spiritual clinkers.
Flames that flickered in my bricked hearth
have burnt out.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem