language is waiting
in broken parts, mostly,
not new, but disassembled
waiting for you
missing you as always
on early mornings before
you have taken that needed
deep breaths.
it is not feeling anything
unless you begin taking it
one by one, creating and
recreating meaning using
the letters like blocks of
a system, a house, a vehicle,
red corpuscles gathered in
one container with labyrinthine
thoughts, trying to tell you
what and who you are.
now in a paragraph you read
yourself, deciphering where you
are finally heading.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem