on a Sunday
the man returns to the sea
to clean the foreshore
teeming with coconuts
from thick grass
bad grass and beetles
that eat buds and
kill
on a Sunday back
to the past again
clearing some forests
of memories
therein
one seeks a redemption
for what had been
putting some seeds again
as anticipations of
the future
that may never come
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem