The key dropped into a hand,
at a certain age looks like
doors will open. Clockwise
turned it raises a question
only a key can answer.
Hands hold the hardness and
rougher and and tougher. The
smoothness colder. What are you
to do with empty freedom.
The key breaks into two. You
have the story of a key and
half a key. Resemblance of a
sibling and half a sibling. Put
together they forge a story of
looking into peep holes.
A hut is lighter on the inside.
The light is on and nakedness is
dancing the latest jingle. These crazy
seventies. For siblings to laugh
before a door key turns, is to lose
the key and half a key.
You danced before they played the tune.
Your sibling was right to laugh. You
thought your key was about zippers
going down in the heat of the moment.
Years later as you hand the key to
your offspring, you see the hole
leading you further into the peephole.
You curse for the sake of a moment of
knowing. The two halves are about a key
and half a key. It is an anti clocks
turn. It's no longer your wish, but your
turn. You've come of age. Says the white
hair on your head.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem