For the drunken giant silk moths
that flutter and crash headstrong
against the lit panes,
or who lie, wing-pinned
against the glass - outside the house -
in mock crucifixion,
and ogle with tacky eyes
at the world inside,
the dazzling lights on the ceiling
around which they imagine
the bandari trance dance all night,
for them,
this space where I sit and idle
under the lamp shade,
in the solitude of a pensive
and often edgy eunuch,
‘is’ paradise.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
chi, Many times I have heard it said, in reference to what's on my car, about what birds do by and by, but this may give a whole new meaning to, ' It's a good thing cows can't fly! ' B.V.A.