Ah, the statecraft of
present times, was becoming
agender.
The strength of institution
would lie in old oil paintings.
You become stupid
and start living in dark rooms
to understand the sun.
Half-beliefs were―
cooked straight from the
sermons of striped coats.
The delusion was
simple. There was camphora
to revive the fainting glory.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
The only thing that cannot be said correctly is the truth. It has no echo. Thrown against vertical walls what returns is only melancholy blue. Or pinks and oranges of sunset on a day when you did nothing, on a day when you were alone and the sky cried sounds your heart heard.