I dismember the past like a butcher
My hands sticky with blood
The hatchet in my hand
Performs a hopeless autopsy
The present cowers in terror,
The stink of loss and guilt in its wake
I visit the thorny bush, remembrance
Like a crow, seeking its nest
No solace in its shadows
No rest, no rest
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
We need to cast off our shadows but they are gummed to our souls. A very powerful poem.