at the end
he is prepared to present the emptiness of his hands
and be thankful about
those tiny pinches
which the present has sounded
beautifully like
a siren song
the way he has learned to let go
everythingoh how the soft white sands drift from his
hair
and not looking back
like a salt woman of yore
that you have
read and forgotten
for tired of so many goodbyes
he has finally decided not to make
any.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem