If I have to remember,
it’s not worth setting down,
I’m the journalist of that
which will not go to ground.
What I report
wakes me in a sweat,
and wraps its strong hands
around my neck.
What I set down
drives me to my desk
when I should be in bed
getting my rest.
I don’t report the news,
it reports me,
and won’t stop choking
till I set it free.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem