The excuses, the usual suspects, like warding
Off some recalcitrant, lurking evil.
The smell, not of poverty, but of riches.
Towers of ancient newsprint,
Totems of fading memory,
Touchstones of a lost forlorn love,
Vast aggregations of stuff,
Like the building of a minor galaxy.
I can't move!
The mass overpowers yet comforts me, lauding
My prescient acumen, not hoarding:
Preparation - stitches in time -
I can't give it up!
I can't give anything up!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem