Home is so sad. It stays as it was left.
Shaped to the comfort of the last to go
As if to win them back. Instead bereft
Of anyone to please, it withers so,
Having no heart to put aside the theft
And turn again to what it started as,
A joyous shout at how things ought to be,
Long fallen wide. You can see how it was.
Look at the pictures and the cutlery.
The music in the piano stool. That vase.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem