It is often the thought,
caught between the dishes
and running upstairs,
the thought of something
missed,
not quite me.
But nothing ever happens,
and I return,
never knowing how to venture or
gain,
only having seen
some vestige in the shadows
of water.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I don't quite know what to make of this one.