Living my own way
like flint,
you will not read
my cosmology.
We two, keep quiet in―
the same book― I
want to read some
hidden message from you.
A day slips into night.
What a consumption of will.
The train stops at the terminus―
without a traveler.
Stepping out, from the
grave of body― you will throw
a reflection, of the nerves,
in a wreath.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Stepping out, from the grave of body― you will throw a reflection, of the nerves, in a wreath.- -Beautiful lines from a great poet, i enjoy reading your poem, thanks for sharing.