Made of life, but not of flesh.
Form is formed with blade and dye.
Wooden bone is clothed and loved.
An empty space lies at his side.
The sculptor cuts his strings: the thread
which guided where he moved.
Perhaps a happenstance
or else a magic star
could grant the greatest wish.
Alas, he collapses.
A pile of wood with
a twinkle in his eye.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem