her bed and the lame remind me of her
the bed and the pillows where she used to sleep
the black varnish still on the walls there
like the old fantasies about wolves and deers
every word I wrote fits every line she draws
the breeze she fanned to me every time she sighed
her fine art fits the world we never saw
the typical has their darker side when they die
but she came and called my name
and said come along my dearest child
the angels will fall to give a call
about my favorite song of being a blind
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem