If someone asked, I'd say:
I wanted something
made of matter or not
that comes once-only in a lifetime.
This means I've lived
ages watching daybreaks and waiting
for my shadow to stop re-
counting the old moon's arcs and phases,
weighing the new night against sun-days;
so, growing comfortably used to
lonesome evenings,
even anguish becomes a friend
with acceptable habits.
Sometimes she moans:
if only, today...
and I listen, as always
with an open mind. I know
my lengthy passages through nights become
her mornings, but every
single light is mine.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem