there is no style to speak of
no pattern to follow
now, or ever, no model,
i have no idol, and i am no
idol, i live faraway,
and nearness is strange, and
cold,
there is a voice, you must have
heard it before,
it is more strange than nearness
lonelier than faraway,
i want to speak, i am drawing mouths,
i like to fetch the sound of water
from the well of literature,
when i speak, and the more i speak,
what happens is that
i become less of who we are,
the voice that comes out is the voice
of the old and the many
and so i sit on the floor and hide by the wall
as i choose silence, my eyes begin
to speak.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem