Silent, still Monday morning, clouds filling
the sky overhead.
Trance-like qualities filling without, letting
imagination take whatever turns it prefers.
Riding down the 51, in a yellow cab, very late
for an appointment, because someone at the office
made a mistake, yet again.
Not knowing what the words, 'high priority' meant.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem