you’re not adams apple
the fruits from tree of the knowledge
of good and evil
in the middle of the garden of eden
in genesis
yet at you
the round oranges of this afternoon-town
i stare
and my pate gradually
becomes pregnant
the wind that comes after
having a touch of your lips
puts the waging of its tail on my forehead
and my guava-leaf begins to melt
thus my hardware-business is going
into liquidation
the physician to the king is telling
it’s the symptom of an awful fever attended with
the morbidity of the three humours of the body
used... and used... and used...
your smile has not yet become
stupid
so from where the lamp-posts of the
town start
there are the cutlets and the bolster
they are not the only to utter the last words
i’m too
in this summer trying to decorate the gate of my cage
like wedding ceremony
if any soundless dew-dropp comes
to prepare and feed me
my birth-day frumenty
but i’ve no tongue
at all
all over the face
there are only the eyes
and to the fate of my staring-at
has ever so much blessings been
available
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem