he is in the middle of something
Painful
Choosing between slashing his wrist with a blade
Or firing a bullet in his head
In the middle ambiguities
he stopped
You called.
What if the blade slashed his wrist?
And blood squirted on the Floor like a basin of water
Like falling tears On his cheeks
What if the gun fired?
And his brain spills on his chest
What if you did not call?
It is the middle of pain It is the middle of confusing things
Sometimes, it is the middle That saves.
Luck.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem