I pick up the phone
My hands thoughtessly press
The familiar buttons
Hesitating
Before pressing
The final digit
I remember
The bird has flown
From its cage
Hence I wonder this:
Will you ever call again?
I grab a paper
And begin to write
Of all the misery and hatred
I mainly direct to you
I spot the pink eraser
Fit for big mistakes
Such as the one I've made
Where I sit and stay
For a chat with you
I feel so guilty
Here throwing out these words
When people
Have never said them before
But this is how
Life will take its course
And maybe
Just maybe
The path it takes
Will lead to the house
By the rumbling riverside
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem