Monday nights are strange
Though I shall find in them pain
Enough to submerge;
How the day began through me
But all the same I remain!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Mondays become tuesdays and so on. But what remains is the experiencer. Although the experiencer may adapt to change, one in reality can never change. There is nothing there within to metamorphose. I found your comment stimulating. Thanks!