the neon falls short
there is an empty plastic cup
on the window sill
reflecting the slight glow
but it is still pretty dark
but with time the watery eyes
become visible
the glow similar
to the plastic cup
and you notice
the slight booze
lining the edges
mosses grow around persistent puddles
they can feel the rotting resolve
that makes a stain so deep
it is impossible to separate it
without dismembering the flesh
the skin is diseased jaundiced
sticky like a toad
and slightly more isolated than the soul
the loneliest bridges
are the ones from where
no one jumps into the river
they have a torturous sadness about them
that still has not found an outlet
the scarlet linings of clouds at sunset
take over that pain
and drown in the river everyday
spider-webs make a corner
clean corners are stupid corners
thought-flies need shelter
need consuming
slow and steady
or the room remains empty
empty of ideas
empty of ideals
empty of an anarchy
that is so very important
empty even without an insoluble floor
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem