Despondent, praying for release of feelings deeply embedded
in particles of grey matter.
Strung tightly, decorating thought, pulling it back out of
paths of sorrow, leaving no memories for tomorrow.
Wallowing through anticipated greetings, cut short by history's beginning.
Cold, shivering, lying on slabs of marble, being prepared for
picture-taking death.
Little, unremembered abilities, lost long ago, tossed against
pillars of stone, run over and over, never dying, just being
hidden under everything else in life.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem