One more bogeyman
flaps on a calendar, bragging.
They're all prisoners of hope, shoulders
sagging in the present, lips festooned
with platitudes;
the loose change of their lives
rings on the floor, rolls away.
These treacherous seasons of ecstasy
go striding like colossi
across my torpid body.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem