I would pray then at my bedside,
Fingers tightly intertwined,
Eyes straining to close around themselves,
Thoughts thrown with all my strength—
A heavy Sunday paper hurled
Nightly toward heaven’s mighty gates.
The car would pull into the whispering drive;
Its engine cutting, then chugging twice,
The creak and slam of a dented door,
Shoes crunch quietly through the snow,
Leaving me to listen
In the silence they have left behind.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem