after so many days
published in the wind
painted in wings
the recent heart’s desire
of the doors and windows
they have rolled up their fairy-tales
from the ignorant drawing-room that wanted
to set her mind to the hill slanting downward
they did not want to know
how much rheumatism is there
in the hands and legs of the bark
to whom is delegated
the control of the mason-made bus-journey
sleep hugs the eye-lids of the rivers
though there is no postage-stamp
within the reaching-point
then what magic is there
in the hill slanting downward
why the wall does not learn
how to swim like a fish
truly it is he from whom
those negligible moments of man-ism
itch for blue candle-stand
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem