We creep into our beds
cold, lonely and sinking.
There is an emptiness that pervades all
as one lies in bed, a wingless pod covered by cloth
and a mind taken by some inhabitant
that has sucked all thoughts dry
and looks for congealed blood in the marrow
(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