it was early morning
when what i am is merely hearing voices
and all i can do is look at those faces
and sometimes make a stare
at noon, i have learned many things
and i begin to speak their language
adopt their way at looking at this world
and attempt many times to understand each part
i've read on the papers that evening
about a woman who jumped to the sea and was never found
there is the shiver that goes to the bottom of my marrow
i check my bones
some people have become periods of the long paragraph
i judge them sometimes and put those flowers of sympathy
i do not sleep till dawn
my hands are resting on my forehead
my eyes are painting the ceiling
and my feet are buried on the ground
such is the case of some complaisance
as morning arrives again singing its blue marks
upon its cheeks are tattoos
which i have mistaken as scars
there are always other matters
i sleep with them now.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem