I`m so high up,
that when my
brother shouts
I hear
nothing.
His lips move
and he gesticulates,
but I hear
nothing.
His voice has taken a detour
free of its box.
It drifts upwards,
in its own time,
alights on a branch,
takes in the view,
stretches its vowels
collects its consonants,
adjusts the volume;
it`s in no hurry to be heard.
The wind blows through the tree
and the voice wavers.
I wait, trying to lip read
from 30 metres up,
then suddenly:
It`s bloody late, you coming down!
Oh! I jump, yeah ok! I shout;
but my brother looks confused
and points to his ear.
My brow furrows in surprise,
then I realise,
my voice is as lazy as his.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem