A paint drop dripping down my canvas
In conversation with gravity.
Moving towards the numb wooden floor
Showing some ecstatic audacity.
Smooth like a cat — making no sound
Possessing a sporadic figure.
Warming the ground, spreading on brown
Like a red sheet of gooey mirror.
Watching this sight, the paintbrush's laughing
Unaware of its own vague nature.
But this drop is colour-blind, only sees red
Its nature is unlike creatures.
My canvas is crying but I can't help
It hurts me because it's all mine
If I scrub the floor and a stain is left
I'll know the drop has lived just fine.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem