entering the room
i saw different colors -
some popping out,
some running away from me
with outlines of
fancy furniture following
smoothly with my eyes…
and everything was
so silent and still
like the picture beside the bed
of my mother even then dead.
no sound was heard
except for the ticking
of the nervous clock,
and i could smell the coffee
of its lonely misery, for
unlike us whose hands are joined,
it alone was keeping the count
of hours and minutes
cooked up by mortal men.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Brings out the point well.