thinking of a deceased Polish poet.
days, weeks? ,
gone by -
stubbles,
beards appear
like weeds
in a garden;
the wash undone,
no clean clothes;
dirty dishes
suffocating
a small kithcen
space;
plants not watered;
post unanswered;
knocks on the door
ignored.
the poison
must first run
its course!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem