I am tired...
Restlessly I go to where the rock cannot be unearthed
Where the root of the trees cannot splinter
Where the salt-like, metal smell of my being
Cannot filter into the palpable hearts of flesh,
Only into the black licorice smell of darkness.
This is my silence...
'Oh', so bittersweet and as intangible
As the notion of 'nothingness.'
Only to become 'something, '
Later when my 'nuisances' set aside
Their overly glorified nets;
I find myself estranged, caught in thought; thinking.
I am tired...
I have become a splendor
Letting myself go into an honorable bottom,
A place where I do not sink,
But, find there within, hard, soft, yet flowering things
Where there is no sun, no dawn, no twilight, no moon.
Only the subdued longing to understand some sort of cinder...
As to where it goes; I go,
Somewhat bittersweet and impalpable..
The evaporating, salt-like, metal smell of my being
Making the edges of finger-tips singe.
This is my silence...
Filtering into the palpable hearts of flesh,
Writhing in overly glorified nets...
It is so now I have become tired.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I just have one question Mimi...why are you so good at writing poetry? :) What i really liked about this was the experience it evoked...most poets (like myself) always forget to use SMELL when describing things. you have a great way of stirring up this thing inside of me I sometimes call a soul. Namaste!