A Tanka Prose
people awake
work, eat, and sleep...
the Mondays of present
follow the rhythm
of the Sundays in past
Blank years in and out. This is daily life. And then the sudden moment of being: the stab of memories, the sting of longings, the slaughter of time. There is no screaming tragedy in ordinary life.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I can not see Sisyphus anywhere!