it is raining and its sounds
soothe the arrival of another darkness
in life
which has become a cave where dimness
thrives
where we utter a word and it echoes on
all walls
which we mistake as another crowd
in our lonely
existences
at an hour where sleep refuses us
the much needed
solace
we hear the sound of our own voice
and we doubt if it is us
until we accept the monotonous sound of
its sorrow
as part of our own
nuances
our fingers touch the stillness of our skin
making us feel the home
of our built-in
isolation
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem