Every second on a call
Every words she says
And stores in cistron dust
Had been said days before
And days after by the same
Silence at the end;
... Now and then she calls.
Talking to a doll through a dull
Probably hearing all or not at all
Packing emotions in repository dust
That is shuffled and floating in air
Longer and larger than its container
Hoping for flesh or fresh start at the end
... Now and then she calls.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem