you realize that it is all like playing the piano
this time, it will be always in the early morning while the mind is clear and daring like a wrestler of the mud,
it is different though since there are no notes to make the music
be heard by someone else like the sad neighbor nearby mourning for the loss of a son who was killed yesterday by unknown assailants as they term it on the TV news
the words keep coming and the hands are adept at sculpting them all here and they they start to state what is hidden beneath those pretenses of the lips and the eyes which are learning well the art of denial
today is the anger and all the servants are packing their clothes to work somewhere else
acceptance is still very very far away.
meanwhile this imaginary piano player closes the piano and keeps the silence of the keys
he has other works to do and cannot all the time attend to you.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem