Photos of Kafka
bend the heart a bit.
They make you want
to buy him coffee,
also pastry, and listen
to him tell a joke.
He's slight, his face
is bony, his coat's
too big. He isn't absurd:
The photos mean
too much. Their charcoal
realism's cold.
You want to say, Come
back, Mr. Kafka, and have
another try. If God knows,
then God knows you've
earned a second chance
with fresh lungs
and time to write.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem