it is hard to live in a house
whose walls argue with the windows
whose roof falls upon the floors
crushing you in between
it is hard when your heart is not at home
with your mind
it is hard when your fingers do something
different from what your hands sing
it is hard when what the mouth speaks
runs against the words of the tongue
it is hard when all you do is exist and not live
it is hard when you have long become dead
and yet the people that you meet in the street
tells you that
you are happy and that they all envy you
imagine the guilt as high as the cliff!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem