you have overused
a body
and today it aches
and asks for
rest, it is
a Sunday morning
and women go to church
while men go
to cockpits
and children prepare
for the picnic on the
beach
with their friends
and pets
the house will be empty
the sound of falling leaves
in the backyard can be
heard
ants take their fill over
left overs from the party
last night
and all those good byes
left by the doors rot there
like fruit peelings thrown
by guests
it is you, alone, overusing
a body,
that shouts for rest
on this Sunday morning.
it is you that is putting
everything in paper, in place,
so that this can be
not forgotten.
this misfit, this anti-social behavior,
this cat in the middle of the road,
that dog that everyone wants to kill.
that ant without a queen.
that square peg trying to fit in
a round hole.
that flower for the dead.
that requiem.
and this silence.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem