do you sometimes
feel that
you are a ripe plum
ready
for the picking?
and since no one is
there
not even a
child at play
and so you feel
the need
for
falling?
sort of
you are a delicious plum
and there is
no taker
sort of
you are bound to fall
and then
rot on
the feet of your
tree
in the middle of
a thick
green grass
underneath the bluest
sky
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
then get picked up by someone who's had a gutful but won't let a fly get the same.