The Saddest Thing
The saddest thing, the way you keep waking,
walking outdoors to the saddest transport
that carries you for miles to where you
don’t want to go, your papers ready, or
your bag in hand, crossing the boulevards,
obeying the signs—and sad the way you are
just right for schedules, for hours that compel,
and clothes that fit tight. Now that you’ve been born
to this place, the hours grow by days, by sun,
by rain. Now you wonder when they’ll let you
go home, and that’s the saddest thing ever.
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.