Memories snap past
like blurred views
from many trains…
so little remains
of standing still.
Again and again,
in its ageing haste,
like a blotching pen
the heart spills out its waste.
And in his every room
the pages of vast,
half-empty visions lie
crumpled on the carpet
like flowers, tight shut,
trying still to uncurl and bloom
after they have been cut.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem