It's too late
She thought, she said
That poem's been done
He thought, he said
Why must it be?
That way, he thought
Not expecting
Any answer at all
Is it ever really
Too late, or is that
Just a cheap excuse
For laziness, again
The world stood silent
As it has almost always done
Being night, the birds slept
But the TV was on
So mundane
So unprofound
And where is the art?
Something asked aloud
Collected clichés replied
What about love?
Mostly, sadly, it hid
Uttering not a sound
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem