Circular System - NR. 9 Poem by Paul Bogaert
Circular System - NR. 9
One stands at a lock
that guarantees mustiness.
Then one instinctively finds out the trick:
one tightens certain muscles, betrays
some hesitation, but then pushes through and clear.
One feels some pressure in the ear.
A quite abhorrent overtone.
A way of thinking not one's own.
But one does not disturb a system's core
when seeing the beloved in a revolving door.
Translation: John Irons
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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5/4/2024 8:00:14 PM # 1.0.0.1119
