you have been attuned to setting aside matters
then things then people then
the world
your hands have become adept at doing it until your arms
begin to feel its skill as art
you turn around and move forward and there is no looking back
because it is too unnecessary because there is no one there
anymore
it is a lonely place and no one hears you when you begin to cry.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem