piles of records
wait like executioners
have no plan
of putting my
head for the
cutting axe
they can always wait
while i dance
while i climb mountains
and see the fog
and the ships below
the wide expanse
of the sea
meanwhile i am sipping
tea
and savoring this
slice of cake
this slice of life
how can i let them
waste it?
i am stopping by the woods
to listen to the birds
i am roaming the forest
for the flowers
i like to stop for a while
and wade on the river
i like to flow like the wind
to the willow trees
let the pile of records wait
with their axes and spears
i will then offer this body
for their feasts...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem