The day is bright,
Open,
And exposing.
A rude spot light.
An insistive friend.
In its light.
We are all that exist.
We are works of art,
We expect to be judged.
And judged we are.
Our looks,
Our talents,
Our faults,
Our hearts.
For all eyes to see.
Our artist is not judged.
No, just us.
How cruel...
-SOH
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
The morning light changes into a spotlight and the day becomes a contest with judgment looming over you as a work of art. And I thought a poem called DAY would be an ordinary day of familiar expectations met and boring routines repeated. This is entirely different. It's Judgment Day! The speaker certainly knows the drill - she lists a variety of things that will be assessed. But they are all very personal inner qualities that will be probed so her unease (Is it anger too?) at the end is understandable. A one-sided judgment. She assets herself in the last lines, but I can't tell it her voice carries power. It should, she's justified.