The rickety sound of a playing card
King of Hearts
Continuously flutters against the spokes of a wheel
That isn’t there
This sound provides the rhythm
Around which, this life carefully orchestrates
After leaving it all on auto–pilot
It is wise to return now and again
To the film canisters labeled
Memories
Before they degrade beyond repair
The sound becomes a projector
Pouring light through each frame
Illuminating the shadows of forgetfulness
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem