His voice reminds me of distant things, far removed
From me and my life. His voice reminds me
Of distant alleys, of rain hitting dry soil
Of perfume-laden roses in the rain,
Of dusks with crimson suns, birds chattering in trees;
Of the glittering sun, scorched stone to the finger's touch
Of the veritable reasons of existence.
Even the cornerstone of every being
Knows remorse, guilt and exile in the mind.
The body lags far, far behind.
His voice reminds me of silence under the sun.
A table, overladen with sweet fruit, curtains
Billowing under the monsoon rain, dark blue clouds;
Of a lonely tree under the sky, ripe with longing.
And birds that fly, fly, fly.
Thus it is that the end comes right from the beginning.
I hear that voice, so far removed from my life,
And from this deep, pointless longing.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A lovely poem from the inner recesses of the heart. Well articulated and nicely penned, to hammer home the point. Thanks for sharing. Please read my poem MANDELA - THE IMMORTAL ICON.