.
old joe flynn comes in here
every day at noon and sits
at the same table― he holds
up two gnarled fingers of each
hand to the barman,
and the waiter brings him
two pints of draft and a couple
of pickled, hard-boiled eggs
on a plate― they don't speak,
they just nod at one another―
it's as if joe's unaware there's anyone
else in the place― he sprinkles salt
on his eggs and wolfs them down
to dilute the loneliness
that consumes him.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
the power of pathos sometimes creates a very vivid picture, of a brief moment in humanities struggle to simply get by... great poem`picture here Bert. Moving.