just doing something
that touches
the deeper part of the
marrow of my bone
the spirit is alive
the body is weak
there are questions
popping up like
mushrooms after
a rainy night
you ponder upon each
shape and color
round and pale and
expanding
and still tough like
a question begging for
an answer
there is this emptiness
that even a poem
at dusk cannot fill
it exists and its duty
is not to disappear
it enters your heart
and makes its home there
God says
he dwells there as well
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem