If you didn't knock on the walls,
I wouldn't have known them there.
I wouldn't have known I'm inside.
I would have kept on writing poems
seeing no inklines on the white sheets of paper,
feeling no pen between my fingers,
hearing no silence in the night.
If you did not knock on my walls,
I would have kept on reading and reading my books
knowing not that they're cold and dry
knowing not that they're loud and stone deaf.
But if you didn't knock on the walls
I wouldn't have known you were there,
I wouldn't have gone outside.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem