The insomniacs are here
in the deary fields of dreams
unbelieving
throwing words carelessly like wild seeds of
discontents
and without sleeping
they are all watching them grow
for the morning to see
and believe and perhaps be happy again
as the seeds grow into flowers
poems and stories too arrive in
abundance like a shower of petals
from the spring of trees
and when everything blooms
as though the place is somewhere in Tokyo
poems and stories are read and passed
from one bookworm to another
from one fiery imagination to another fairy tale
perhaps on the next night of our sweet ordeals
we shall find something we want to really
recover
we can sleep soundly again
dreaming words in their bright colors
tomorrow, yes, perhaps on another
tomorrow
in their sweet scents in their
good taste in such basketful of abundance
the words will always grow.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem