When Will You Come Home Poem by Martins Akhoeneto

When will you come home
And fill the dying space
That yearns a million ways
For you and you alone?

All I hear are noises
Infesting the busy street,
As though the noise were disease.
And I count with every beat.

Gazing at the clock of boredom,
I wait for the call of dusk
To grant my lover his freedom,
To offer me what I humbly ask:

That his chest be my tender pillow,
While I smile in his arms as lights go low.