you write and i listen to each word.
you are faraway. You speak in repetitive lines.
there are standards of art.
a poem must be so and so. so does a short story.
unity of plot, choice of words,
fixing the mood and
fortifying the contextual feel.
you are mumbling poetry in winter
inside a train that travels on a speed greater than light.
tomorrow it will be at ten in the morning
when the bullet arrives at its destination
you write.... breathtaking views, flashes of memories.
i listen to a chant. i chant myself.
speaking to speaking speaking.
we are all alone. yet we cope up without any
help from them, damn carpets and
dripping roofs.
whether what you write is poetry or prose
it is not important anymore.
you are a poem that i care for.
i do not know you but there is a shadow
it is enough for me.
damn biters. damn arrivals.
i do the same. Sit back and write.
senselessly. desperately seeking what we still do not know.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem