travelling across
the silky perfect cadences
of all-conciliating
dead-hour suite that rings
somewhere in between
the dreamy moon
and moony dreams,
I will surely catch you
hanging on the lips
of midsummer winds
whistling their
seductive serenades
to bewildered leaves
and limbs.
I surmise their love's
a way more fortunate
than mine. - no,
I feel no envy -
I enshrined
my own leaky songs
half-drowned in quicksands,
vessels of imperfect lines
and imperfect sense.
and someday I'll put afloat
this crumpled paper fleet.
singing braver than
the most gold-mouthed wind
is the heart
that bleeds.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem