Many times
You hurled me
First
Steeply
To the feet.
Then
Twirling or pouring
In to the dark
From distances various
From time planes various
Bloodied by solitude
I went on
Supplicating.
Like a stone
Towards
The centre of the earth
The application
Was rejected
But
Mother,
I know.
Somewhere behind
Your eyes
Open and close
If only
A little bit of my flesh
Were jammed
In its hinges!
Then
At least that bit
Of mine
Would have been
Valid.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem