I once thought
I can come back
from the paper—land
where the ghastliness
of the secret–code dreams
is infinite as all
characters in the little mystery letters
where one finds life and its day-by-day
and yet does not were the mask of a stranger
but the encompassment of hope is
the never-ending story
with our stories out there
ourselves out here
the vanishing point of the memory cliché
the present of again
the future of the past
today
so indivisibly evident in all faces of my appearance
this is why
I can never come out
from a human being
existence of the epos
unless it is the only return
and this is all there is
in all beings
traveling ahead of themselves
digging and scooping as backhoes
so fading away
whatever you do
sprinkle it
again
and over again
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem