Too close
Or too outlying
That is not the
Work of the way
Nor the machinism
Of the soul
On the disillusioned
Streets we are nameless
And driveled
I sit, unused and
Be the sole witness
To the espionage of
The felines or
The groveling of
The shadows
In this vantage
The trees rustle
A laugh - a silent,
Unfathomable derision
And in here,
We all have our
raison d'êtres to be
Lost, banished and
Broken in all
The wrong places
Mine is just
Too far-flung
And I feel the parasol
Bend to the strife
Of the wind's frigid expanse;
In here we all
Share the same fate
A circus, a redundancy
We are all
Flabbergasted, tired
And ravaged
By the soliloquy
Of seeing our hands empty
As we grip the cold
Bars in resigned places.
I do not know when
This will be consigned
To forgetfulness -
All I know is that
I vie because I have a
Heart, and when it
Shatters, I know
I am alive.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem