Friday's come easier for me-
slowly, deliberately
and fond of my waiting
A cup of Bustelo,
a prayer at dawn,
the new morning, my intimate companion
I won't till the land today;
won't toil and scrape
for diamonds in concrete
or attend the meeting
about the meeting,
or have lunch with strangers
Today, when the stars fade
and the seam of dawn
splits on the horizon
I will be wrapped comfortably
in praise to the creator
of sun
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem