Some people can sense
the proximity of tribulation;
be it from a sustained acquaintance
with illness or incertitude,
whether from some prescience
or a fined-tuned sensitivity
to change, any kind of change,
they are barometers of bathos,
reluctant Cassandras
reading the signs
and bracing for the worst.
Or maybe we are all clairvoyant,
with pictures of our destinies
tucked away in some pleat
in our brain matter,
like family photos
in a shirt pocket.
Maybe it takes enormous courage
to open the gate
when what lies on the other side
seems unfamiliar
and menacing.
And yet sometimes it seems
that looking back at what has already
passed the gate and has taken up residence
in our memory is just as forbidding
as getting a glimpse of tomorrow.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem