Tufts of memories placed on outer branches of remembering so
they can't be reached easily.
Precariously hanging from dizzying heights, seeing images,
wanting to let go and drop into eternal pits of hell.
Not wanting to know what hellish nightmares were reality in
the past.
Tripping over them, afraid to pick them up or look at them,
ever avoiding the hopelessness that must come at last upon
facing them.
Delving hesitantly in shallow graves, not wishing to dig up
too much of anything.
Living always on the fringe of life, not wanting any part of
it for knowledge of it meant instant death.
Crashing emotionally, falling deep within, novacaine-like,
life has always been unfelt inside.
Heart deadened long ago by a man, supposedly good, a burning
lie, instead, a killer of innocent childhood.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem