Worn by the touch of fingers
Holds
A memory
But the memory was buried
In another's lost time
How forlorn it looks
Waiting
Without the care of a living
Soul
No value intrinsic
In the measure of its form
Whether rescued or discarded
Dependent on a stranger's whim
An unfeeling hand that sorts categorically
In abstract piles from A to B.
~ Laurence Overmire
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem