i confided to her
many lied
for
the truth of the matter
is that
his recent poem is not the kind
that he makes
those that mends the broken wings
of a bird
enabling it to fly away from
all threats
i am an honest man
i have told her that
but at
this moment
i am having a hard time telling the truth
to the sad man
who is
licking his wounds
like a stray
dog
in the street
i ask if my honesty can do service
to his art
she says
how can he ever understand our quest
for the lighter
state - the way we have been looking for those
beautiful
gossamer wings
on twilight
when the rest have
ceased playing
their games
it is dark
and everyone is tired
those depressed
have swallowed the drugs
that can make
them sleep
and for a while
forget
ah, why bother?
i write this instead.
To hell with art
I must save the life
of a sad man
even if
i shall only tell
about
illusions
like what the rest of
the tribe is
doing
here is silence
it is truth's beautiful sister
and together
they can make a
perfect pair...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem