It's always the same.
Always after I wake
When eyes finnaly break
Away from dark unlit lanes.
Her melancholy song slips
Through dusty resting rooms,
Soft but strange upon the ears
Cold and unerving like empty tombs.
Still warm feet touch un-warmed floors
Night has not yet left,
As if not ready to leave its shores.
Following the song like a lost child
Tracking its parents desperate calls
Past pencil marked white walls,
I stumble upon nothing,
But a kitchen deprived of silence
From the dripping tap.
Standing naked looking
For something that
Died once I stopped growing,
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Beautiful yet filled with a deep sadness. I especially enjoyed the last two lines. Wonderful poem, Vincent.