it is what happens after,
the aftermath, not really the shock and
the horror of what is created,
it is the awe, and the wandering
not really lost as you may suspect
not those doubts, for in truth they are
those that which make us
exist,
not existence, but it is the life after,
not the afterlife, it is the breath that i take
after i have exhaled,
that which comes out from my being
not those that still want to enter
inside the veins
and lungs and
caves of my severeness
it is the i after, the am, the feeling that
i am here, alive and still
keeps on writing what i think i do not really know
it is the mystery that surrounds
this whole room
not the chairs and the ceiling....
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem