I knew something was wrong
the day I tried to pick up a
small piece of sunlight
and it slithered through my fingers,
not wanting to take shape.
Everything else stayed the same—
the chairs and the carpet
and all the corners
where the waiting continued.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Good depiction of typical off-day well articulated and nicely penned.