The year
(too tired to continue)
limps to its
conclusion.
It has its usual crop
of natural & man-made disasters
wars...famines
etc., etc., etc.
the inhuman-ness of being
human
leaving me
like a seashell
in its tsunami
of Time
yet another piece
of human wreckage
mere
flotsam
as the paralysis
grips me tighter
a hard rain falling
on the appeals
of the New Year's
bells.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem