It is sometimes like releasing bees from our hands
since we bite sometimes
and the people who are listening scatter like children
in fear and trembling bitten
and they come back with their injuries now looking
for you
and talking becomes war where the talkers become
all victims
but talking can sometimes turn into prayers when we
begin talking to someone invisible but whom we trust
and those who see us have only empathy why now
i talk only to myself after releasing all those terrible bees
i understand it somehow, this need for an elocution
since the soul is sick and badly it needs the balm of
words, a dressing of prayers
and more time for waiting so that the healing may complete itself
in that litany of confessions.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem