Snatched cluster of noise
on the croaky stairs of anger
betrays the pent-up steam
of scattered months and years
When will the confused arrow
snatched from the sleeping thunder
take up the golden bow?
When will the plastic wonder
of gathered thoughts
find a bed to sleep on?
When will the thunderous clap
become a milky stretch of silence?
When? When?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem