The south-east wind sends scraps
of the world to my door;
distorted lamppost shapes,
ghostly hunched forms, explore
the world around me in hollow gusts.
I am an object of scrutiny. There are
in this remote place no welcome guests:
what belongs here must travel far
from almost forgotten places.
This is a murky world cut off
from the warmth of familiar faces
and habit or ritual or comfortable love.
The south-east wind sings only the driest
of songs and the small rain cannot rain down;
absent calls of birds cut deep
into empty air: nothing is where
it belongs; nothing takes definite shape:
formless sounds and shadows surround
me: it is the need to know what they are
that keeps me from leaving here.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
The south-east wind sings only the driest of songs and the small rain cannot rain down; absent calls of birds cut deep into empty air: nothing is where Beautiful lines superb poem with nice images, thanks for sharing.
Sincerely grateful that the poem gave you pleasure, Shakil! Have a lovely evening. Charl