Sometimes you muse whether the old poets,
raised from their slumber to see the books piled
on your desk, the scribblings you've made on
paper and the screen, would say, "You are one
of us," with a curt nod, or whether they would
state, with mild disdain in their voice, "You are
one of them, now let us rest on those pages,"
and turn away. You wonder, and you go and read
again their words that speak while the tongues
are gone, and then you let it be; you translate
and you write, and snow falls behind the panes
and the day grows old and you grow old.
22.10.2023
#Poem #Poems #Poetry #Verse
Ei kommentteja:
Lähetä kommentti