Dear, Raymond
when we were younger
I hit you over the head
with a milk jug.
I'm sorry about that.
But these things happen,
there is no helping it.
Yet still, I think about it.
How the milk leaped
out of the broken glass
then dove down
to the plank vinyl.
The way you fell after it.
So limp, I didn't know
how limp you'd become.
And I think about it constantly
Your burgundy blood
swirling in the pure white.
I can't help but think of it.
What a waste of milk.
I couldn't help it. I had to chuckle at the last line. What a waste of milk indeed!
Beautiful recpitulation of the adolescence with deep realization of the past.. magnificently drafted!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
yes