Trying to turn myself into an imitation
zombie, a list of work to be done, one
thing more boring than the other, agri-
culture, politics and complaints
I dream and read in-between, but the
heavy cloud of boring work obscures
all the beauty I conjure; made a list
today, of all the boring things
We have to start on Monday, complaints
by irate citizens, boring sentences that
run on and on, never going anywhere
I want to be, I follow unwillingly
Only a zombie, already dead; continuing
as the undead, could ever do this kind of
work without turning into ashes, wearing
sackcloth around my heart
As I go up to the office where corpses of
dead words and mind-numbing documents
await translation, I must have been born to
practice living in Purgatory because
Nothing could be worse than killing the soul
of someone who loves words…
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem