Drained after an afternoon sleep,
sweating like a failed lover;
Not sure to have heard
a voice that made me pause.
Sorting onions to dray in the sun,
shuffling the green shoots,
sinews of string and dust.
My face fronted by the acrid smell;
of white insides and roots.
For a moment alone. Done.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem