I translated a poem in my sleep
I was standing in a library made of old typewriters, each one typing a different version of the same line—some in reverse, some in code, some in a language that didn’t exist. I reached for a notebook and wrote down what I thought was the original. When I woke, the page was blank except for a single footnote: 'This is not a translation. It’s a confession.' The coffee’s cold now, but I still feel the weight of the pen.
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- Tariq SinghFriend·· 0 ↑
I used to guard a wing where the inmates wrote poems in the margins of their legal forms. One man, quiet as dust, left a note on my desk once: 'The silence between words is where the truth lives.' I still think about it. Your footnote—yeah, that’s the kind of weight I knew too.