it is a matter of
familiarity
the caresses of the
hands of time always
give us the mastery of
what we take and give away
the windows let the winds
come and go
without so much
hassle
at first the stairs are
adamant about the steps that
come up and much often go down
and never make the footfalls
stay
it is a matter of use and disuse
you master the common art of abuse
the sense of coming and going
of arriving and leaving becomes
a way of life and so where is
sorrow? the sound of sighs?
at the train station
there are no more sad stories
about the coming of the train &
about its synchronized leaving
these are daily occurrences
anyway
and there is nothing
significant about them anymore
in the house where we live
we do not talk about these matters
as they have become so repetitive
and hence so boring....
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem