there is always comfort
in something certain
basics of life: where to go what to do
when it is finished
there is ease
knowing what a chair is all about
or the exact time when
darkness comes
but there is something more
something that we perhaps all know
there is calamity too
in being certain
in the flowing and the expulsion of the
tight hold of the bud
how can one face the sun?
when wilting is certain sooner than thought
how can one face the mirror
and count the factitious of years
the shedding of masks
the slow showing of the first bone
of the skull
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem