the kettle is not
in its proper place
grains of rice
scattered on the
path
no birds pecking
this time
the cat on the fence
is keen
but helpless
leaves in heaps
there is no wind this time
i think about
burning
the curtains are
unmoved
dusts settle
layered
there is a story
to tell
the archeologists
are not bringing their
brushes
of history
even the winds
if you taste them
are bitter
when the gate opens
this time
no hand shall open it
again
a woman sits
staring blankly to a humid
morning
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem