Can an iron-proud haiku convince himself
to quietly blossom in the middle of the night
into self-effacing jasmines
that dance in a ripple of laughter?
The jasmines breathe only for an hour
near the flattened peak of a snow mountain.
Watch closely. The ripple is enough to blast
the earth's partying masks
and expose fleeing homunculi and little men.
Please spy on the true self.
Is he half-melting inside a snow flake?
Is he gone before someone can complete this haiku?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem