The midnight's cataracts whiten,
and here's the sea hissing
its one stuttered consonant.
Leaf-printed, you track the moon
to a beached, bearded hull, a room
of vertigo or freedom
that narrows like memory.
Small flames ascend a tree
of light. The two-and-thirty
palaces of Bodhisattvam
tremble on the vellum-
smooth water, like flotsam.
If tonight the mind is queasy,
drawing thoughts like flies, he
is fine too with every crazy
scheme you devise, none crazier
than this pilgrimage to a pier
that seems to have disappeared,
leaving you seaborne at last,
ahead of you the past,
and all its famous cities lost.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
leaving seaborne, good one..