I.
Sundays are for feasting.
A long sigh at a short table
low trousers and brow sweat,
fulfilled dreams of satisfaction
yet gut pain.
The wrench of a forgotten bowel
the motive for gluttony lost
at once a peril
and a prayer
for fast feet, doubled over,
where, yonder, the children
kick leaves that are long dead
and desiccated.
Their breath fogs
The laughter dies quick in the cold
and from your throne
they are silent.
They could be wailing
they could be burning atop a devil lap,
but you trust the rustling leaves.
II.
Descent to the foundation,
the very brick and damp
that all your years rest upon,
in a weeping corner
cut carpet rug, running beneath
a few wicker chairs.
You've traded much.
III.
In the evening, the wisps of forethought
once bereft, afloat, engage in heavy play.
Dreamt curses and empty wishes
ward solitude from the family around it.
Love does not live here.
Feasting, planning. Self-guard.
Love does not live here
between these few pillars
these moving, seeding faces.
The plates have lifted
and the table emptied.
There is nothing else to say.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem