the wall in this room is made
of glass
overlooking the plaza
where the rains are busy
discarding themselves
like a burden.
soft rain. no noise.
a big, muscular man
arrives
mustached, and
strong arms holding on
to a electric blue
handle of a motorcycle
he holds the key
to a certain destination
he looks at me
and i told him even if he did not ask at all
i do not know. i do not really know.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem