faces do not matter now
a long time ago
a mole cannot escape
the mention
of an island
that lonely thing that
keeps us agape
about why
faces come like waves
of people that we do not
really care to know
who they are
and what they are apt to
they pass us by
and we pass them too
in that mutuality
of indifference
we are like saturated sponges
all wanting heat
to be empty again
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem