on hangers of different sizes i place the wet clothes now free of stain..
my task set, i survey the skies praying there'll be no rain...
i'm just a bit worried to leave behind helpless all the white
yet, i can only wish every dust and hurt will fade against the light.
fearing i've become too aged and weak to wash so much load
with most of my strength being drained by the heat on the road..
but i have to fill the clothesline as there's no one else
to take care of the soiled graying linen in this garden of yellow bells.
maybe i've become too afraid for something so burning hard
like laying down everything for just one crumpled card.
so, i am leaving quietly - no drama, no sound..
back to where my heart has always found its fertile ground.
love then is sometimes going away to somewhere else and find
a backyard with more sun … and drying breeze of a gentler kind
where sacrifices are better embraced by words and not just the mind...
and dirty garments turn into magical paintings intertwined.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem