I dreamed I was a disk on which
the story of my life was being burned
as I was spinning
I was giving new sensations
to the writing sheet
the chandelier
and the other things in the room
I was spinning
and spinning
and the needle harrowing my memory
was getting closer and closer
to the tiny hole in the centre
where I would forget everything unexpectedly
and be just like the writing sheet
the chandelier
and the other things in the room
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem