notice that
after seeing something
now, you
expect something beyond
this, but
for the meantime you
scrutinize every
corner
all details, then you
try grasping the
whole of this
creation,
of words, that sometimes
does not give you
a picture of anything
like a zebra for instance
transforming into a
man in his pajamas
you invent a scent
like jasmine or something
forceful like
pepper or
chloroform as a hint
for those
who died ahead of you
weird, , , ,
sigh, you stop
and express a disappointment
saying
this thing is not leading
me to something
greater than myself
something redeeming like
the good works
of Christ
precisely, this is what is
intended to be said
everything is incomplete
unfinished
truth is a growing tree
a climbing vine
a flower blooming
a fan opening in a warms season
to give you the
message of
fresh air
what do you get from this
useless piece?
ah, that feeling of incompleteness
of being unfinished
like the way i feel now
i ask: will you complete me?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem