The bare patch
Of dried mud under the swing
Where feet used to brush and scrub
In pendulumic abandon
Is grown over now,
Gone;
I prepared the ground with care
And sewed the seed
Raking it in like scraping away yesterday
The gnarly handle of the rake
Like time in my hands,
Gone;
Why did I want fresh grass?
To replace the memory
Like it never existed
Never happened
Never heard the laughter
Of contented days
Gone.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem