His eyes are see-through.
Through them I see
a yawning empty bread bin
a fridge stands
astounded
by its chilling emptiness
a stove, cold,
sits huddled in a corner
finds nothing to warm up
for mice swept the pantry
before seeking refuge
in refuse pits
in the neighbourhood.
Cockroaches left jackets
on hangers of webs
bills are forming
a small mound
on a formica table.
Yet - whenever I ask
How he is doing
he replies:
'Fine. And you?'
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I like reading,do no judge me for being here...good choice of words