Every year
When the trees turn yellow
I walk to the ground
Where they hold the annual book fair
I meet my old friend Samuel near the gate
Don’t you know Samuel?
Samuel from Dublin!
Of course you met him! !
We exchange smiles
But say nothing
His gaze returns to the crowd
I leave him right there at the entrance
Where he permanently seems to station himself
I enter the stalls one by one
I scan the books arranged in neat rows on the shelves
The same tiresome titles in colorful jackets
Or they appear the same to me
Pretty children dragging bored parents
Poetic assaults through the PAS
Faceless singers
Shady speakers
I keep on searching
Every nook and corner of the stalls
Under the lights
In the shades
No it is not there
I return empty handed
I meet Samuel again
‘Better luck next year, friend’
I take his leave
And sadly walk back home…
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem