dismiss these words as nothing but fireflies
moving in circles around the crown of a tree
on a very dark night,
for these works of the wind are nothing
but images of ghosts
whirling on top of my head all
for nothing but a play of mental drawings
moving and moving in circles
in imaginary skies
believe me not,
i am just a poet, and a beginner at that,
move on with your life, and think
of something else, your future
your ambitions, your love
and desire, keep moving on
and leave me, i am drunk with
poetry, and i whirl on top of
my table, filled with words, that
i touch with my hands
something that i cannot tell you
because i know, you too from the
start, understands them all,
like my face in the dark, that
you have always loved, and
yet can never hold.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem