you talk about doors
where there are no windows
you imagine things exist
when all they do is pass by
you try to hold unto permanence
when there is none actually
it is not at all emotions
mind you, there is more to all of these
not just words, flesh, perhaps i am just
entertaining the illusions of the flesh
or light, or even the grass that live
on my head, as though i have
hair, in this game, there is no fixed
directions, simply because
in the first place, you do not really know
where to go, or what to do
with your life, it is just sitting down, talking
to the conscience, playing with its
thoughts, and questioning its rules,
there could be war, between you and
another you, and they say, here comes
another schizophrenic trying to spell
out the difference between a spill and
a pill, but there are images on the ceiling
lizards laughing, and a light bulb that
gets steady with its own
dim light, you imagine chairs as people
and the walls as curtains, and you
as the clown, or the magician trying to
do a trick, to please time, to stop hurting
other people, to love this self, that
lays like a carpet on the floor, there is
warmth, there is a flow of sentences, and
cut flowers, and a glass of cold water,
chunks of iced feelings, and sweet
sour fishy tales, and here comes another
fool trying to figure out, what are these lines,
maps, or pathways, or eddies of air,
or jars without wine, mugs without coffee,
words without meanings, just that.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem