this morning
i see the child that
he carried
at noontime
the child is a man
anchored to his arms
a pregnant woman
at night
i hear the coughs of same
man same child
same memory
ah, time swiftly passes by
my poem about
him
has become
a brown page
the letters fade
the words
crumple turn to dust
and blown
by the skirts of time
to a never ending horizon
to an open ended
question
of where to
and why
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem