'Thrown away'. I sense
one degree of your kindness
encompassing all
in those two sad words.
But what would a bottle feel?
It's just a waiter -
it dies with its tip,
and the last pang of pleasure
on a summer tongue.
Chairs, on the other
hand; chairs are made for longer
association.
No one to support;
no creativity to
underpin, no warm
clamp-to of buttock.
One leg of four breaks, and this
racehorse is useless.
Chairs mourn, I'm sure,
in the charnel of junk; lie
catatonic.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem