lasts...lasts upon lasts
a group of exotic birds
caught in the sunlight
of the dead cobbler's workshop
dreaming of the unmade shoes
sits as if she were
trapped in an Edward Hopper
as if...he paints her
innermost being...inner turmoil
set in this restaurant scene
new Italian shoes
that he so longed for..worn now
for his own funeral
their blue box full of snapshots
at the back of the wardrobe
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem