Heart groping a hollow chamber,
Conscious of what is not,
Taking stock of what is:
Despair? Absent.
Meaning? Absent.
Reassurance? Late again.
Eyes unfocused, feet moving,
Mouth talking, hands working,
Inurred to the world.
Robbed of purpose by
Interminable duty
And still the hollow heart beats.
Noise riquochets off chamber walls,
Smoothed by tides of ceaseless action.
Until, slowly,
A wave of reflection
Creeps in
To dampen the echo.
Where is the soul that guards the heart?
It’s here in the listening;
In the knowledge that
This too shall pass;
In compassion
For others with hollow hearts.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
That Monday feeling followed by the knowledge that nothing is forever. Finely penned. t x