As he sits
deceptively in his comfort,
I watch reflections in a broken mirror
of the seventh year
His vision gapes just enough
to kill my presence-
an unwelcome lemon seed
A coward;
afraid of his deepest grace
finds pure serenity
in the wind at his doorstep-
yearning to enter
Circling with untouched contact,
I see a two faced reality
of these milky eyes;
wise stars
sealed by the mangled blue day
It is his...
It is mine...
but not ours.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem