the shadows of my
mind
need not be
the shadows of my
body
the spirit longs for
more
of its much needed
solitude
in crisis
it states what it has long
desired
that which the body
keeps on denying
genuflecting knees
hitting hands
bloody backs
worn feet
torn palms
broken limbs
the words come out
much different from a
thirsty mouth
it is not the word
it is the act that tells you more
it is what is done
it is not what is said
there is a house in that far mountain
it rests upon its feet
no one lives there
a stranger cloud sometimes comes a drifting
it sees the emptiness of the surrounding
the humid bedroom it feels though from a distance
and just like the rest who knows
they take refuge in the silence
words are never to be trusted
it is merely the sigh of the falling rain
sometimes you hear the tapping of the rain inside your mind
and you look outside
there the sun shows you
what sometimes are illogical
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem