I'm feeling sorry for yourself.
I bring some empathy to your shelf
of discomfort. It's such a small
gift, sitting there against the wall.
I wonder if it does you any good.
Guilt gets me thinking I should
convert it to fuel that would power me
to cook, transport, listen; to see
to something that might lessen pain;
to soothe, repair, or entertain:
something, anything, specific for you,
that is, as opposed to
this general sympathetic feeling,
which hangs above you like a ceiling.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem