My sweet crumbling child;
I found your name in the lights that line the streets of this burning city,
even as the smoke of a newborn cycle
had lifted your morass eyes to mine.
I watch you indulge a penance,
even though your sentence does not provide for such.
You are different.
There is something tranquil in the way you shuffle through my thoughts;
a peaceful variation to the usual hustling aboard the trains.
I would like to have met you in simpler times,
when words were of elementary value.
Perhaps at a time when encoded variation
was no need for disdain- if such a time exists.
Who do you belong to, child?
Have your parents led you to believe
that you belong among this wreckage?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Very thought provoking. You have a way of putting the image of the situation into words. Thanks.