So this is what has become of us:
You crawling on the cold kitchen floor
heaving your heavy frame, panting-
whimpering and wounded.
And me, sat in the lounge just four
feet away from your slivering form
staring at the Television, lips trembiling
from the sudden death of Auntie Jane
knowing that she will not smile
that splendid smile on screen again.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I don't often get lost in poems Vincent but you succeeded with this one. I love the imagery, it reminded me of the film, 'who killed sister george? ' 10 from it wasn't me! lol Tai