AFTERNOON READING
The old poet-teacher coughs,
stops to shuffle papers-- a quick apology,
this ancient imbiber of chalk-dust--
He begins again,
his flat voice droning in the half-empty gallery--
words without passion or color,
passive echos meant to fill a classroom,
wrap around a syllabus, enclose a text--
(certainly, not to please a lover!)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem