IT IS as house of stone
above a hill where the grasses
have learned to survive
The sun shines all day
The moon as usual comes only
when the cicada sings
As if
sorrow has a role to play
on the uncertainty of the place
I am a constant visitor there
I murmur words to the grass
and they all listen
I sit upon the rock
and it lets me warm my butt
The place is too unlikely for one
Like me
But i always go there
To worship
What i am
You do not know where it is
And so you will never know
what i am.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem