we hold on
to what makes us feel
alive
we keep a tight
hand in the form
of rooting
fingers
like some vines
upon an
old tree
or an orchid
hanging there
with so much
color and
beauty
we sometimes
take the shape of a
fist
on the other
hand
if
needed
just to keep
it
going
but life has its
own life
its own time
frame too
and death has its
own
unique contour
that arrives
at you
sometimes
as a
surprise
i can call it
ripeness
some call
it
inevitability
or reality from
a philosophical
point of
view
i see it as a very
ripe fruit
that falls from a
tree of bounty
and then a child comes
running
to pick it up
and begins to
peel it
and bite
and
swallow
because it is luscious
because it is so sweet.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem