there is this
handsome
man in the neighborhood who
begins to
stutter when
death enters
in the conversation
an invited guest
as he calls it
to him it would be horrible
and to some extent
impolite
holding his glass of red wine
against the
glow of the
sun
and munching his greens
as usual
he always feels that life
has so much to offer
and that there must no
space to allow
the dread of sickness and death
in any
talk in order to be
wholesome
i am looking at him with
disbelief
i must be drunk perhaps
because
as i see him
he has no head
at all
i think
he is not real at all
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem