coffee spills take a shape
of a familiar face, a name
on my neutral table
even the trace of my cup
seemed to resemble
an informal festival
of the conflict between
mind, body and soul
when windows open
and doors swing shut,
echoing stories and tales
of spilling “little water”
across the crystal floors,
before you swept the room
and never returned
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem