Do we put it in a smaller frame
As life carries on?
Or hide it in a closet
Like our old high school song?
Recall it through an illness
Where it translates into breath
I think it disappears
To some barren, dormant, nest
When we need it will it come
Like a bill collector calls?
Shouldn't we see it every evening?
The way God makes nights fall?
Does it knock on my door, or approach in the street?
Like a guest would visit a friend?
Or does it come like a nurse to her patients?
Whose rest she must upend
Will it come as a tap on my arm?
Or like the milkman comes to a farm?
If it doesn't write on a sticky-note
How would I know it's around?
If it preaches in a mike like a priest
I hope I can stay awake
Does it finish like a TV sitcom?
Then try to sell me some cake?
Do I have to be in trouble?
It must know if I'm just kidding
And everyone to have it
must find where hope is living
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem