Words flow
in different coloured thoughts
from your tiny hand
page after page
submits to your mind
crayoned into being.
Then we tear them up
into separate entities
plant them in the rich black soil
between row after row
of crocus.
Planting words
you squeal with delight.
I tell you they will grow
into poems
by the morning
if you love them enough.
As you sleep
dreaming that it can be – such
I kidnap your words
shape them
so that when you awaken
a tiny crop of haiku
awaits
your happily believing eyes.
We read them
over soldiers and perfectly boiled eggs.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem