It’s waiting hurts the most. Ask me
To wait and I will, being me, agree
To wait. Complaisant I, I let
My warp lie waiting knowing thread will fret,
The woof forgetting where to thread,
My tapestry Penelope’d, unspread,
Or oils for the painting dry,
The brush bewildered, canvassing a why
Unanswered, or my poem’s line
The first unseconded, or by design
The novel of my life part two,
Avoiding questions twin-like: “You are who? ”
I waking in the night, when wakes
Awaiting that bright morning, find the aches
Are gone, and grand impatience gears
And rises, all accomplished in arrears.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Very deep dear poet, very good write though.