Our window overlooks
the hospital property,
and immediately the view
contains a single smokestack
which I'm told belongs
to the morgue building.
Every couple of hours,
while I'm writing or eating,
it will start up, giving off
deep thick charcoal billows
of smoke, every so often
without fail. But you know,
I don't mind it much.
Actually, it's just the thing
to keep me from taking
myself too seriously.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem