Confusion simplifies:
sun’s a red dot in murk,
boat’s a black patch
on murk, just a spill
of red light lets seeing tell
a difference between one
murk and another. It’s all
a seeming in which morning
looks as vague as thoughts
or the other way around, and
blended seemings compose
a soup which eyes will taste as light,
air, water. A painter makes
one moist concoction seem
like another, and we look at
what seems to have been seen
and imagine we see it.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Writers and readers do it too. But I guess you already know that. '...we look at/what seems to have been seen/and imagine we see it.' You can lead a horse to water I found when my daughter, age ten then, handed me back 'Black Beauty.' 'I'm not reading this. Horses don't talk! '