When the body grows up,
the children inside it die;
where are they now,
if no longer present?
Every night I bury those imps-
but every night, they re-animate again.
Dead children will not stay buried.
The past lives forever
on some forgotten thoroughfare,
but we grown-ups
always have more forgetting to do.
It is our daily task,
when the stiffened cardboard cut-outs
fall over again, at morning.
The brain is a restless cemetery.
Besides the stunning last line, these two also struck me: ...but we grown-ups/ always have more forgetting to do. Brilliant, Patti!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Love and get that last line!