The wind rushes through my open window
It sucks the heat of the moment out of this claus-space.
Thoughts flow like water, worries, hopes, fears
bobbing to the surface like trash off a pier.
Noticed....
Forgotten....
The air is still fresh from the night's gift of dew,
though having the taste; the smell of heat to come.
When does this road end?
I have been driving it for hours now....
Haven't I?
I know that bland, blank stone face is there.
I pass it everyday.
Twice a day.
I look at others as they pass me.
I wonder if their lives have ended today also.
Am I moving?
The cool wind rushing through my open window says I am....
I hope not.
I don't want to get there.
I don't want to see her.
I don't want to tell heartful strangers that, 'Yes, she use to be my other self.'
That we were one - until a lifetime ago when the phone rang.
Am I moving?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem