The silence spoke of my crimes-
only the perfectly polished clock made
noise, it was happy with its time.
After the 10th ciggarette the novelty
faded with the smoke clouds.
Everywhere I turned a little of her remained.
The arrangement of the tinned soup,
metal soldiers all in line, holding my attention.
The recent letters marked with the red of
the biro, -I could see her circling them.
Her features cold, but alive.
The garden being the only place she
refused to go, seemed ideal for a place
to spend alone. Even in death she remained.
vincent, are you sure you did not make up this poem. i could sense the fakeness in it. that is to tell the truth.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Coldness and stillness come across, but betray a warmth, deeply buried and lonely.