His day is but a true disguise;
a quiet Sunday, uninterrupted by the doorbell,
unchained by circumstance, freed from fashion,
in loneliness so deep he can’t explain,
almost crying because he can’t describe it.,
waiting for the rain of the day which has yet to be.
He doesn’t have the nerve to speak, just gazes,
but with sufficient humility to make him proud;
thankful for the conversation that he grasps,
but fails to speak out loud;
the surroundings say everything that needs to:
dry rot’s concealed beneath his creaking boards.
Exploding words and questioned deeds -
to stretch his mind to comprehend this wealth?
He walks around outside to clear his head –
his cul-de-sac, come alive again.
(Each line is stolen from a fellow poet here)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.