on one wooden leg. will you please give me
something to wear? wooden and permanent.
before you rest one leg on the ground
you have to fill it with life. the seed you
planted is now a forest waiting
to be turned into wooden legs. windbent
acquiescence. sand grained. knotted with salt.
it is unreal. they still bend uneasily
wound driven drifting. who are you waiting
for? does it matter so much? yes. now.
in this conversation is also a
prayer for the dead. it is cold here
outside these winding sheets. you better have
something to wear. please? outside is unreal.
- March 27,1978
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A beautiful poem Anjana