the blades of the electric fan
are making the usual noise in a very warm room
where air is nil
where loneliness reigns like a queen
of sorrow
its chatter seeps in the green curtains by the window
where a bowl lies there empty because the gold fish died
because a cat hit it with its paw but did not eat it
and it lays wasted on the floor
it is noisy
gyrating like a body
it is boring a hole in my
ear
but actually i do not mind it anymore
my noise is louder
and i am trying to figure out what it is really
by writing about it
are words tools of excavation
can it exhume a dead idea buried a long time ago
because it has been painful?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem