whose hand on your heart,
whose back beneath the load?
whose time in the memories,
that color your world?
whose identity the touch?
whose image in the stone?
whose kiss on your lips?
whose stillness in your night?
i am the turn,
and the lantern without price.
i am the touch,
you thought was the wind.
i am the bed,
where your prayers go to sleep.
i am the intimate stranger,
throwing logs on your fire!
you wrap up pieces
of your heart in cardboard boxes.
close the curtains,
turn off the light,
waiting for death to arrive.
and i spend my time
just sweeping your floors,
with an eye to the window...
praying for cats and dogs!
I think we are all waiting for death, it's just a case of seeing what we can fit in and how good we can make it before death does come for us, A great poem.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Wonderful piece of work here - very deep.