I remember tiny things picking up a burnt match
from a floor wondering who threw it there.
A May day in St. Malo, I saw an old man crying
streaks of tears down rumpled chin.
Shy bluebells lost amongst tall trees, yet they
made me think of prayer wheels in Tibet.
Glow of coal in the grate, it was early morning
and the road outside was frosty white.
A summer night up north I was waiting for night
it never came...and then it was morning.
In dead rabbits eyes I saw the warm August sky,
I, happy to alive, yet saddened.
When the Pacific Ocean was a mirror of eternity
And time ceased, yet lingered like a kiss.
Waving flags, military band and bloody parades,
I have long forgotten why and where.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem