You can not really tell if his eyes are peering
Beneath a pair of lightly stoned-sleepy lids
If you’re looking for him in or around
Where you are looking now, I’ll be asleep,
or dusty bones.
He hums a tune
No one knows,
His words are never in time with the song
So he do not bother to speak
Until he makes it fit.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem