Across the road the decorators have finished;
your flat has net curtains again
after all these weeks, and a ‘To Let' sign.
I can only think of it as a tomb,
excavated, in the end, by
explorers in facemasks and protective spacesuits.
No papers, no bank account, no next of kin;
only a barricade against the landlord,
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem