Across the wide space
of white glare
from below I stretch
a sentence,
and an image starts across
the spun taut line
that seems to go on
forever
- one jarring word shaking
the tightrope
and the image totters
till
I correct the balance, the tension,
and the rhythm returns –
the beautiful poise,
arms outstretched: a butterfly
balancing on air
till it finally settles
on the small flower
that is the poem.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
That's some nice metaphoring.