Akin to water separating in front of a vessel
or a wake closing behind a ship
or a cleft osculating the blade of the hatchet
I have in my possession two hundred letters
between a mother and her son
that I think shouldn't be opened or read.
Let their tale be known only to the both of them.
I don't want to experience the mother's tears or
feel my throat close upon seeing his armless torso.
I shall open the biscuit tin that enfolds the writing
and the images and I shall trace in the blind with
my finger only the dog tags resting at the bottom.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem