My window blinds are just that.
They, bruised by the fire that
I hate—But depend on presently.
It checks on me regularly,
But smothers me in my shelter—
Seeping through those horizons.
And my window cracks are cluttered with light;
My room is illuminated like a canvas.
I wake to and from it every morning.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem