Eliot's Prufrock measured his life in coffee spoons,
having known the evenings, mornings, afternoons.
Such is the nature of simple measures,
themselves repositories of greater treasures:
the flick of a goldfish's tail
the absence of incoming mail
the very last coffin-nail
in an otherwise languid soirée.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Alexa lee Amazing poetry here keep on writing