An oriole gives
an edgy call
in the blaze of morning.
I am not fully awake,
sky is melting on window.
Death has company.
Zen, it did not connect me
with your god.
I am tired of pretentions.
Small was the wasp
in a cobweb of pain.
It floated a sign of conflict.
My thorn did not prick your petals
in vain. Dead leaves
started bleeding.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
your writing stops & starts, in chiseled potency, and perfection. best care friend, goldy