This place,
the matrix
of which she is
entrapped,
not as a spider,
but as the bound fly,
eaten by time
and unable
to escape,
feels the web
tremble......
she is unnerved,
lunch is served.
Waf
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
the kitchen, sometimes called a mothers shackles, this poem is delicious with wit, but filled with soberness, the last two lines I don't know whether to smile or frown, is she trapped in a pattern of degradation? sad but beautiful.
Thankyou for your interest.Sunday lunches take a toll. Best regards, .