but I’m walking with roses;
suddenly I realize I’ve been slowly shrinking
and am shadowed even by their
romantic thorns. It’s
like my fingers feeling bits of bare
-ness after I’ve cut my nails,
but nothing so particular—
I am looking at me from afar
and I know everything with no conversation,
only undistinguished.
Maybe I am sleeping.
I see no dandelion rebels in the dark
hitching up the skirts of ordinary, easy petals.
Shadows dance, or are they others
Like me? : They are blurry as I
Wandering through flower beds not their own
and searching for open sky.
I thought I was a lily, not possessing
stem pin-pricks I cannot point.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem