If I would hear the breathing
of an angry man and his knife,
when that deadly sharp
he shall flick to my neck,
a prelude before the swipe,
in a few seconds, I know
I must be dead and forget
the earth and be forgotten;
nothing else even matter
when it shall be done
and my thoughts wouldn't be
of myself or a pity
that I'd be dead
the acres of corns I'd leave behind;
but the calmness of your face
somewhere, brewing coffee,
folding my khakis,
tending the kids,
and thinking I'd be home
by six.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Awesome. And I thought I had a good vocabulary. And your writing speaks of a minds experience. What a way to show a poem. Brilliant.