The house is empty and seems so cold;
Rooms are dying, winding down, all through,
Where childhood thumbled long ago.
And in seclusion, I dummy death,
With fingers touching, still content
To draw stars and circles in the air.
Here, lion-crouching or war dancing;
Test-monkey sitting and laboratory squatting,
Waiting, expectantly, as if you would come in.
Round and round, without touching
Floors and walls or appliances:
These interiors have become your Himalaya's, you said.
And in my hunchbacked morality - I hypnotise...
Corners are head-shaped and I fit in.
Both as giant and insect, table-drowning,
Wanting to hear your voice, but then
Electric socket dreaming and spoon bending
Have taken you from me once again.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem