making my friendship with the water-pigeon does not mean
that i’ve acknowledged all devotion of the land-lotuses to river
without putting any note of dissent
I’m still plunging my face
into the heart of
black-soil
white
is my thirst in clouds
sometimes I wish to exchange the headlights
of my flesh and blood
with a ocean
and put my palms
together with regards
to say to my all time-cheerful chest-pocket
oh master let the age of my shadows
be not more vivacious
than the flower-bed after marriage
and without the help of any civic key
let the drinking-bowl of an wish-baul
walks as it wishes
along my lips
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem