May as well be the well with no more wishes
But for you to look at its drought
The star too tired to wink at any more sense
The bird that does not ask about the meaning of its flight
The names uplisting downlisting spitting
At the meaning of numbers
The door that's there just to be mute about an entrance
The milkman recycled in too many bottles
That licked the last dropp from the their bottom
The cat lazily observing the softness of its paws
Having a chat with its day of independence
The eyes closed down on page one
In the registry books of sight
The hair clasped and hanging
From the catalogue of colours
The art that asks for no reward
But the beauty spelled in wholeness
May as well be any thing
You touch with fingers already marked
In start and finishing lines
Even if you never asked
Where the stroke of your breath comes from
And what it will eventually paint
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem