The author tells the reporter
from the New Yorker he has
no electrical power in his cave
and that’s why he writes
with quills on parchment
stopping for a couple of hours
of sleep and a couple of bats
from the ceiling to eat.
He writes in a cave, he says,
to avoid the world and lives
in stories to forget the cave
unless the stories are bleak
then he writes poems about
long-legged ladies with smiles
like angels, eyes like suns
and waterfall hair, ladies who
won’t visit because he’s a gnome.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem