it is not his name
it is
this prayer
hand in hand
with prayer
these are the hands
that clasp
after a day of
plowing those
arid lands
the silence of the stones
after the
pebbles have
gritted
the chair facing
the sunset
after the door is
banged
it happens when
we finally rest
in sleep
after we shout
to one
another.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem