I was born three thousand bumpy miles from here,
and with a different name. I want God to be a wild god
of fire and walk in flames on a still and silent world.
I want that world to be washed by yellow sand
in the autumn wind. When I walk on that same world
I want God to notice me, to feel me.
Sentence me, Judge! To life or death, to years
or memories. I sit in empty rooms, white with quiet.
I read scraps of paper that were scribbled on by thieves.
It is practicle to change my name, my blood.
It is practicle to live with fire, wind, and memory.
I am a person without reason. Is that troubling?
I look for the perfect circle without really thinking
I'll find it! Who is the fool here?
The wind is a lone herdsman, here to drive
the summer away. The old cat crunches on her breakfast
amid dry leaves and debris. Only reluctantly
will I close all of the windows, to be trapped by autumn,
to be unnoticed by God.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem