a foetal child
squatting under a big-flower-print
wallpaper, torn and dirty,
carried out like a sack of coal,
bald carpets full of footsteps,
dusty chairs shifted down
overpainted stairs,
windows cold with house wind.
the last bottle of milk,
sour as the day is full of nails.
this a house full of sudden space,
half a life waiting on a wet lawn.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
great poem I love the sense of lost and the beginning of decay and emptiness