bandaging the wound
with hands that dont connect
to your heart,
am i real? just a ghost?
a wisp of smoke,
the faint taste of rain?
stop running!
the riverbed is dry.
and the sound of the crows,
all that can be heard.
the cup on the windowsill,
empty and untouched!
the small child races
barefoot through the garden,
the paper turned yellow,
the inkwell is dry...
cobwebs in the corner
where i wait!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Love this... What a perspective of time flying As you patiently wait in the dust... My Best To You, Theo