[The bread is burnt] Poem by Ilma Rakusa

[The bread is burnt]



The bread is burnt
the pencil trembles in my hand
my tongue is cramped
eyes crying no tears
a leaden heart
head splitting apart
the cupboards are bare
silent the house where
he doesens´t come any more

Translated by Andrew Winnard

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Ilma Rakusa

Ilma Rakusa

Rimavská Sobota
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