By Thomas Page
This is a series of poems of words that do not directly translate into English. I have tried to capture the essence of the word in a poem.
My grandfather has a rule about running late
That when you are in the car
You are in the car
And can’t do anything else about it.
You can’t leave fifteen minutes earlier
When you are already in motion
With the eastward light becoming westward.
There should be an inner peace
When the control flies like a bird
From your hand
Watching it disappear into the horizon.
Letting it all go to the roulette
Alternating black and red
With your choice in stacks
Distinct from the revolutions.
Let it be like the filtering light
On a soundless day
Without the pollution
Or the doubts of philosophers.