I hear the makers of thunder
Fly unseen,
Drumming rows of
Dumb houses
Stacked grey,
Shaking in the rain’s evening.
Inside this gaudy room
I stir worn sentiments
Through an old
And battered speaker,
Pausing at times
At the distant noise
of others,
Swilling the evening’s waste
from my cup.
The faces come
Vaguely,
Knowing I dream
Their smiles mock my
Distance,
And though I struggle
They do not forgive.
My past and future have
No continuity,
And I am afraid
In the night
In being of no
Importance
Until tomorrow.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem