its reach didn’t save the dog
dying on the melting pitch
didn’t reach vent of his pen
deep enough
to save the vanishing water hen
they all were going
easy game
in the minutes
he was busy writing a poem
in the seconds
he spent naming them
in the hours
his thoughts’ idle wings
mourned their goings
he was never fair
he was never there
as they went one by one
and all his works came undone
with their blood stain!
That’s when he gave up his pen.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem