You said this summer,
hold me tight,
when hanging lights―
go out.
I will heal your moon,
your cryptobiosis
of seeds―
at dawn, when you wake up
before the stars leave.
It would not be a day of mourning.
The quinces, japonica
irises were deeply disturbed.
Under the tongue
lies the religion of masses.
The menus are same, only
the taste was different.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem