Ox
Like the thing on counter; plastic duplicate, a doctor
Stethoscopes, magnifier, otoscope, microscope
Spectacle on his nose, his head bald, around it little hair
He wears robe, a white and overall.
Curious I read and focus, gaze, and stare at finger.
Skin tough, nail is rough, bones are bent.
Each part has history:
My roots are…
Parents are…
Was forced to…
Beethoven and Mozart and Wagner are all mixed
Symphonies come with jazz, and winds of the Andes.
In my palm I can feel the slash of stick, pomegranate
Leather belt…
They take me to my past and childhood; what a hell
The farmers working hard, Kannas has, bent shovel
For plough men stand in a row side by side
Like bulls, Ox.
I stop and reverse
Then compare on return; I can say:
“Now is hell, no one helps; no kindness.”
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem