Lucía M. Polis The Poetry of

This is my translation of 「変わりない」.

these days images are
shadows of themselves

callous men talk into their blackberries
and say nothing

these days it's fashionable to shout
"honey, I'm home" to empty rooms

names echo on the wind
murakami, dostoyevski, whitman

these days things become immaterial at times
and at times

miracles are possible
but there are no words