Moment of truth.
Bougainvilleas
on grass.
A visible absence.
I was searching―
you in poems.
Your fluid eyes.
My moon-clouds
ready to crash on the land.
In my cupped hands
I collect the tears
of the sky.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
When the sky comes low light glows with wonder. Illumination is brought close to the road, and there finds the two feet of the interloper heading behind the curtains, naked and vulnerable in a bedroom where he should not be. A belt links the motor to the generator of electricity.