it was inevitable
the frost crept
in and one morning
you wake up
shivering.
that was a week
ago, now it’s
been four mornings
where I’ve woken
without wanting to,
held a pen
without wanting to,
written
without wanting to,
and knowing
the whole time
exactly what I
want.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem