Under a sickle moon,
the effect was colossal.
The mute words
were floating like vespae.
There was no―
promised nest of paper.
You cannot land
without ink.
The grey beard starts
weaving a web of
lies. Larvae will―
feed on blessed water.
Very warm, very hollow.
The globe turns. You stand
on the surface,
cannot fathom out the human mind.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem