when you get old with no one
to talk to
because everyone is living their own lives
lighting their own dark homes
brewing coffee and indulge in the most trivial arguments
about life
it is proper timing that you begin to scribble
recall, recoil, rebound, reverse, modify
scramble the letters of your past life
and write
your own tapestry in poetry,
and you do not tell them when in the next morning
you are wearing a smile
something that they cannot figure out
why.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem