We have these games.
I watch, you play.
It's the order of things.
As it should be.
It's always felt right.
It's good.
It's the routine.
There must always be a next game.
Winning doesn't matter.
How can it not carry on into eternity
When love is at its core?
It's what I've always wanted,
And what you've always known.
I grow cold from head to foot
When I think of the void left,
In this world
Or the next,
If the games end.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Like the discomfiting questioning in this.. -c