I'm not thinking, not complaining and
not argueing,
Not sleeping,
And not aiming to
Sun or moon, to sea
Or to a ship.
I'm not feeling, how hot is air
That walls within,
How green is garden,
And not expecting for the long-wished gift,
For nothing.
I'm not glad either of morning, or of trams ringing
While running outside.
I'm living all without marking a century
Or day, forgetting now.
On that, seemed slightly cut, strained rope
I'm like - a little dancer,
I'm -
a shadow of someone's shadow, a sleeping-walker
Of two moons dark.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem