Our lift talks to me, as I go up
or down, in a gentle, protective tone.
"We are here," she says "you may go".
She tells me the floor we have reached,
always lets me know where I am.
But whenever I descend to go out
into these streets I do not belong to,
"Begane grond" she intones, in a voice
which sounds to me slightly concerned,
"Here," I think she says, "here's the world,
open the door, go. And do not fret,
everyone here is as foreign as you are.
No one belongs. Not anywhere."
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem