i felt the surface
yours is crude, too superficial
but i do not mind
i keep touching it and slide
my hands around
the edges of your thing
and then i reflect upon
what i have been doing
yes, yours is more like mine
crude, superficial
straightforward, and
flowing
soft like sky blue linens
and cheap for the mindless public
but we continue doing it
day by day
truly, sincerely, and
therapeutically
what we do
does not kill us anyway
in any way
we have found expression
in words
and pity (and love perhaps?)
yet look at us
we do not appear as beggars
wearing dark glasses
and holding a tin can on our hands
we are here
to speak but i guess
we never beg
for ears
we have legs to stand
throughout this agony
and then the children
come around us
wondering if we are humans
confused if they too shall be like us
everyday we keep repeating
what we are
and then the world knows
but keeps on spinning
the morning light still lands
on the lines of our open palms
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem