A Tanka Prose
stage lights on...
my copy of 'Macbeth'
battered
and its cover spotted
as if by white molds
I start reciting in a hoarse voice, 'Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow...' In the back of my mind, I wonder if there is another tomorrow for a gentile like me in this promised land.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem