A man, a mirror and a bowl in front
That was it; that was all
In the bowl was water, a fly
(On surface, wings spanned)
And a book on his back reflected in mirror
'The Circle'
Comb in hand he played with his hair
Of the book, unconcerned
With brush to the side he looked down
Saw fly and smiled
'You're welcome to circle'
He murmured:
'This is life; a circle'
Kept thinking on way out
One step and second
Looked at watch
It was late
So he rushed
Creak sound of breaks
And a bang
And blood
He had died
Unaware of the why
He was born
He was raised
Then a car overran
‘A Circle' was his life.
Poor Afghan; author of:
'The Circle'
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem