The solitary light
at the top of the office block
way after midnight
where a hand in the darkness
stamps yesterday’s date
on letters that will never be sent.
There is nothing here
but the buzz of the light
and the soft fluttering of moth.
A pile of letters teeters
on the edge of the desk,
their recipients, sound in their beds.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem