Like Disciples we sat around the table
into our books we threw our attentions.
Jesus positioned himself deep into his
chair, his eyes glazed by the pain of
universal knowing, remained in deep
reflection. Doctor Anula remarked on
our leaders predictions, a mere nod
of aknowledgment sent us into a writing
frenzy. The sound of paper turning
startled the silent one, drops of sweat
travelled down his face, lingering over
each feature. Thanking him for his
time, he left drifitng through door, and
page. We murmured silent concern.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem