we pass too often unaware,
rogue stars hurtling
through the vast blackness
of inner space...
a bump, a bruise,
a scratch, a scar...
and almost the smell
of a closeness.
we bring the cup to our lips,
too hot to taste...
it is only in the silence after,
that memory reaches out to touch!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A great poem, love the last stanza. A great write.