neither the sun
nor the moon
will notice
nor know
nor care
and all my years
and I
will be
obliterated
lost
washed away
like finger-writing
on hard, wet beachsand
as the wave returns
... not gone
but never was
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Touche. That's the rub (and that's the miracle that we are every day) . Not death- but that we never were; not the living, but the lost dream of a life. Good poetry always inspires more, I say! ;)