godmother writes a letter
complaining that i have not
written about love
that in my youth the poem
was still about the
struggle
for freedom
in a country bound
by oppression
and dictatorship
she vomits the news
of my colleagues
summarily executed in
1975
she challenges me frankly
that i must attempt
to lust, have free sex,
and for once
be crazy about life's
offerings
i was a failure to her
honestly i wrote her a letter
which perhaps she
did not receive because it
was mailed
in the middle of a revolution
i am glad that she perhaps
did not receive it for in there
i wrote 'You are unkind and
suffering from irrelevance'
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem