It makes sense not
to have the body
seamless,
hermetically sealed, a
non-orificial
box of incorruptibles.
Better shot through and through!
Interpenetrated
– with the world. Air
mists my lymph. Ex
cretion, degrading
routine,
gives the world passage.
I am a bead.
Sorted,
thumbed,
threaded,
strung,
fingered (did you say) by
threads of all hues,
riddled through,
happily.
[From: Mirrored, Mirroring; Publisher: Oxford University Press, New Delhi, 1991]
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
An unusual topic to be sure but we are joined to our environment by these things and should respect our Maker's creation as we do sense our life and surroundings by eyes, ears, skin, limbs, tongue and enrich the environment with our passing.... pun intended.