In the darkest corner
of yesterday's face
the child sits
frozen with fear
hoping.
The child's face
forever untouched by the ash-white
hand of time,
will never show corners for me
to hide in.
In his face
once my own, I keep forgetting,
the are only marble-clean
unwrinkled and unwithered
stretches of skin
upon which to stand and ache
in plain view.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem