like a tattered piece of
loin cloth
a voice lays hanging on a pole
beside a
grassy path
it speaks
and i listen
it speaks about its loneliness
its being tattered
it is a torn voice haunted by
a scissor
the thread of mystery runs
wanting still
till nighttime to find the naked
eye
of the needle
pines beside the hill
stand by
like strangers staring
upon the dead body
of a boy
overrun by a ten wheeler
truck
tragic! yes, tragic is the
silence
more tragic is the indifference
that simply walks away
unnoticed even by the invisibility of the
soul of
the wind
chimes.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem