Lost out of the picture;
fallen out of life,
cut-eyed shut down
from all the cars and trains
and all this carrying and breaking
and lines of words without spaces.
You breathe softly, regular,
as if in a deep wood,
paced as a slow piston
in exile to yourself,
a half life turned inside
as if the strings that
could lift you
hang loose in the sunlight.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem