when he was about to write the poem in his head
suddenly the glass fell and then it broke into pieces
near his feet but he heard nothing
what he saw were the scatted pieces of glass
that calm table which did not in any way shake
that curtain which was blown by the air from the window
like the hair of a woman
the paper which remained blank
and the pen which had become too tired
in its throne of silence
it was too late for him to remember: why did that glass fall?
and what was inside that glass?
after ten years or so.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem