The air you're going through, Darlan, it's clean.
but he'll surprise you by not finding
nobody or nothing, not even a raven or
a hyena, fish with wings, a survivor
politician, a noose occupied by the wind,
off millions of bone-filled trenches
and millions more on hold, empty graves,
people no longer standing by, it's strange
that the air, even clean, is alone.
You'll deduce, Darlan, that the men have finished
so many and so oppressive, useless and alone
as a zero on the left, a god.
LINGUEE. Germany. March 2020.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem