The house of my childhood stood empty
On a grey hill
All its furniture gone
Except my grandmother's grindstone
And the brass figurines of her gods
After the death of all birds
Bird-cries still fill the mind
After the city's erasure
A blur still peoples the air
In the colourless crack that comes before morning
In a place where nobody can sing
Words distribute their silence
Among intricately clustered glyphs
My grandmother's voice shivers on a bare branch
I toddle around the empty house
Spring and summer are both gone
Leaving an elderly infant
To explore the rooms of age
this guy seems to be really depressed. He should really clean his room and take up responsibility and see a doctor.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A scintillating poem, metaphored laden and layered 5 Stars full for this Masterpiece!