The life that he was bequeathed
as grandma used to say
what kind of inheritance is that anyway
He drags behind him days
He'd rather not have known.
A camp childhood.
Barbed wire toys.
A suitcase from those days
airmailed
still pretends it is a bird.
He's been living on borrowed time one might say
he's managed to survive.
Till the end he will remain in his own
minority.
Who could make sense of that. Even God
asking for a light in the park's mortgaged darkness
is just helplessness that turns to dust.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
An insightful piece of poetry, well articulated and nicely penned in good diction with conviction. Thanks for sharing Ewa.