Another Rotating Thing Poem by KotaroTakamura

Half wet with spring rain, the morning newspaper,
a little heavy in my hands,
is cutting into shreds the letters and characters of this life.
Iron and gunpowder of the world and the titans behind them
are turning once again in a direction which is dificult to stop.
With a little oil smudge, printing type tells it.
The revolving of the solid earth cannot be ended.
I flick off cherry blossom petals that were brought in stuck to the newspaper.
Inside myself another solid earth rotates.