What will move
This child at play
Figured in a
Woman's form
Who gets up
To fluff
The pillows up
While my heart
Lies tattered
Torn
She does not see
The hell in me
Written on my face
I sit alone
And begrudge the stone
Its weighty silences
What could I say
To a child at play
About one's need
For a woman's love
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem