the windows open
lights are turned off
there is one in the kitchen
at the back door
which you forget to close
which makes you
remember
who she once was
there is the grass trimmed
still insufficiently cut
there are shadows of leaves
there are whispers of gates
no one tells us carefully
every word rushes inside our throats
on blistered syllables
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem