Water drains always seem to be
at not quite the lowest place
and puddles form to the side of them.
With me it’s just the same –
Information and emotions collect
out of reach, not where they should
glancing off a reservoir of
neither sponge nor porous wood.
Therefore, I live off-kilter
removed from where the action is.
I receive only a portion of the nourishment.
What reality is this?
And just as water by its very nature
cannot freely flow up hill –
so must I continue in this
state against my will.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem