They all lie there
In the bottom of a drawer
My past days
A trip here
A trip there
A journey somewhere;
Some birthdays
Long forgotten
Some sad things
Old and rotten
Times by which I must not be late
Deadlines that defined my fate;
Covers blue, black and grey
British Summer Time
Next year
Last year
Clocks forward, clocks back
Days in a neat little stack;
And now, unloved, they lie
No longer of importance
These little bibles of my time
My to-ing, my fro-ing
Once to my pocket married
Once referred to, once carried;
And when you finally come across them
You will look and wonder
But only briefly
Only fleetingly
To think of that day
Before you throw them away.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem