After the tears, heartfelt tears and crocodile tears,
I sit here with mouldy bread crumbs, dill leaves and salt.
The plastic clock above the fridge strikes the hour
to the sound of the same old quarrelling in the street,
echoes resound in the gutters like bits of truth
and madness still propels our globe like the first ache.
We’ve buried you the way you asked: with no stone
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem