Still hovering, I have not touched ground zero where all that talking speaks,
In ashes, dust, rubble and what could, should have been,
Broken tristes without the crunch of the pool ball in the pocket
And the rings, necklaces and momentos in lockets
Of lovers, unspoken sighs and hopes engineered in little things;
Above the ruins I weep my tears of rage and pity,
A carcase for a nation, a blinded minator for a city.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem