In this bowl
In this bowl
Clay and china
I am lost as was
(From birth)
Neither deep, nor wide
And un-precious,
of the kind we call "Treasures"
The trees upside down
Bottom sits the clouds
Varied birds are around
There is me
Ant-tiny and hanging
‘Swimming' I may be
But in fact clinging
Atmosphere, ambient
What the hell!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem