travel has become one form of negligence.
in the house the words are waiting
they become grass
turning into weeds, they grow thorns on their stalks
warning you of a revenge
when you come back the path is barred
you have to cut weeds to enter the door
the door cannot embrace you
it hints you with a door knob to welcome you back
the computers suffer a breakdown
and the fan has become a throttle less the air
you have so many things to tell the room
but the blankets are still covering their ears
your lady who had been waiting impatiently
removes her dress
and you see how wounded are her breasts.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem