Statues of stranded thoughts left hanging in the balance of life with no where to call home, no one to care for them.
Just a space on a shelf, until they are tired of being seen.
Stuck in between books piled high for reading, yet separated from any existence on earth.
Left out in the open, unread, unlooked at, kept away from any other particles of life, encased in coffins of bereavement and stashed away in bare closets of empty houses, never to see the amazement and beauty of another mourning dawn.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem