I called my friend
and
after many calls between which we maintained
long silences,
after many polite turn-downs and diversions
he said,
Come over.
It was a sad dog and wizened master
with half a smile each
who welcomed me.
The dog was seated on a couch in the verandah;
the master sat within and called out for me to come in.
Sit,
he said, pointing to a chair against the wall.
And I sat obediently.
He listened to my consonants, or seemed to
listen and then mouthed words unrelated to one another and mine.
We both fell silent.
Then he told me news
about his home
that was true thirty years ago
and still, for him, holds true.
What can I do?
he sighed.
He looked at the trees on the other side
of the road and I looked at the bushes.
I'm not sure what the lethargic dog
looked at.
I do not need this,
I thought.
Then I said it was time for me to go.
Keep in touch,
I said.
He said he would get in touch with me.
I had put the ball in his court;
and he seemed glad of that
for he could now keep it there.
Or puncture it.
We were both glad.
I left.
He never called. We are both glad.
We understand each other.
(from The Migrant - notes of a newcomer (February 1997- July 1998))
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Words were neatly weaved! I could feel great depression! ! Flowing words..Nice work! ! A 10!