Last night, I dreamt that you could say my name,
So I repaid your voice with my embrace,
But when I woke, it all remained the same:
You could not call me, though you kissed my face.
You refuse to care a whit for fame,
Striding down the street oblivious,
Looking at all people as the same,
Incapable of being envious.
With you, it is not simply food and sleep!
Of this truth, I am thoroughly convinced,
For, in your silence, deep cries out to deep,
And thus, in all your struggles, I have winced,
But when I die, may I to Heaven go,
To hear your voice, so silent here below.
............an interesting write....and a special tribute to a special person....
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
This sonnet reminds me of my younger brother who passed on several years ago. I hope to be reunited with him in heaven, to use your words. Like your brother, I do not 'care a whit for fame'. I shun it.