i
the termites are happy
for i have chosen wood,
and learning my lesson
i use steel
the sea breeze sings
with its salt
ii
the cement may be the solution
or the asphalt
and yet my mind changes
wanting to break the hardness
of the stuff
iii
i like things that last
they say i must have the diamonds
oh! something that we cannot eat?
iv
the body turns to dust
the soul escapes
ideas even on paper
meet the burning
v
footprints on the sand
eaten by the waves
a new slate is ready
i step again and again
now i do not really mind
what prints are there
what word is spoken
what ideas grow
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem