tonight
my toungue is swollen.
My hands grow heavy
with words. Nothing within me
can push them into my throat.
Nothing can give them sound
or meaning or thunder.
I throw them against the wall.
Watch them stumble. Stutter toward
your shadow.
They would reach for you,
if you were here; tremble in your hair
like leaves on autumn mountains.
Like the graceful legs of animals
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem