the old man friday
is back with us leaving his wife
in the mountains to keep her
sense of home and now he is here
mopping the floors of this
ancestral house which in the coming
years shall be empty too as we
definitely proceed to the journey
without any promise of return,
and where shall he be after this
torture of life and living?
he will leave no child as he is
into another oblivious fathering
into the nothingness of all human
endeavors just like what is happening
to us who were here ahead of his
bickering.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem