I left my face on my mother's kerchief
Hauled mountains in my memory
And went away.
The city destroyed its gates
And stacked them on the decks of ships
The way greenness is stacked in the receding fields.
I lean on the wind
Why do I vacillate
when you are my rock?
The distance slaps me
The way fresh death slaps the faces of lovers
And the closer I get to the psalms
The weaker I grow.
Corridors clogged with emptiness!
When do I arrive?...
Blessed is he who is wrapped in his own skin!
Blessed is he who utters his true name without a mistake!
Blessed is he who eats an apple
and does not become a tree.
Who drinks from the water of distant rivers
and does not become a cloud!
Blessed is the rock that worships its bondage
and does not covet the wind's freedom!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem