there is that spider
spinning its house of memories
trapping some flying strangers
wrapping them
putting them in a warped time
eating them
is it mourning now?
one hears the sound of the falling of the leaf
now on the river
spasmodic to a distance
rushing rustling rubric
breaking finally at the junction
of cataclysm
change and destruction and then
the inner peace of the pond
that runs dry
consumed by itself
to the pebbles numb to the sun
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem