I’ve got the blues picking the sound
Of cherry blossoms as they wonder
How they will be
Pollinated- as there is a ghost hung up
In her,
As she is coming perpetually down a
Hill beside the lake:
It seems that she is forever stumbling to
Her knees,
As the gravestones rise above her,
And the airplanes tip their wings:
There is nothing mortal that can save her-
All the barrettes of flowers in her hair,
But as a little boy you can climb up inside
Of her and hear her whisper to
You of who she really is.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem