Talking with you
on the phone
is difficult—
the sound
of the call
falls into a deaf
ear, my joy
undresses slowly
from the zeal.
The minutes pass,
even the hours—
the joy writhes,
shakes in the air,
it loses height,
like a swallow
without wings
it falls
to the ground.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem