I reach out for bites
and jabs
but am greeted by a an empty hand
wringing itself with the other
freshly washed
its there, then gone
like a stuttered dream.
This will be my mask
even on rainy days
when the cold eeks and creeks in
the whistle of the wind
like a mournful cry
echoes again and again and again
not in a cold deathly way..
but like a old song,
a sad song, that requires
we listen, until we learn
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Sad maybe, but even so, some old songs are great! And yes, listening is a way of learning! Well done, Cee Bea!