A late bird, your song flutters, heart to heart.
I see notes hanging from telephone wires,
then falling softly into the deep grass.
And I lay there, staring out of this world,
into another’s sky, where perhaps you might
be laying, and I ask, who are you?
Over and over, and we drift,
making people out of wishes,
filling skies with cherry blossom
and fancy silken hopes, misplacing spilt dreams,
then throwing a coat down to hide them,
not quite sure who will step on
into the future, and who will sink
out of sight, below that rising heaven.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.