Residents are ghosts;
sheet-covered
in every room.
Figures in armchairs
television news blazing,
sheets barely moving as they breathe.
In the kitchen,
a woman’s drape
marries her to the oven.
Upstairs, the sleeping forms
of children bedded down
for a long night.
Dust and ash fall inexplicably
not touching a soul.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem