what else can he do?
almost enlightened over
two bulky volumes of poetry
pondering each words
by weak lamplight
in a crowded room
when across the room
he stirs; this young man
with somnolent eyes
folded legs,
locking his lips
reading intently
reading silently
both eyes and muscle
as one inclined
words by words
as far as the
article ends...
' I hate reading' he uttered,
'What's your favorite subject?
I asked, ..
'Writing poetry... alone'
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem