suddenly brushing against you,
after years and lifetimes...
i realized we are strangers,
drawn by an intimate flame.
your soul smells like my socks,
and yet my voice falls empty...
unnamed raindrops,
clinging to unspoken grass!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
The death of intimacy. Strangers in our own homes. Good write.