there are rows
like signposts
but they lead nowhere
for the undergrowth leaves no paths
no choices, not one path
and we parade like nursery dolls
Man and Woman Well Turned Out
ghosts caught in perpetual time
there are rows
like the memories that order themselves
in our souls, what we call our souls
but there is chaos, too much, too rich
a profusion
like our desires, cravings and wants
that lead to perpetuity
and no cessation, no hope bloom in these grounds
we must turn away from each other;
one can't even bear to look at oneself
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem