To sit on the roof tops
and observe the tiles
In the low lamp glows of
the city of dust clouds
We see the shapes
of the gypsum
shine in fronds
Looking up
They match the leaves
Then folding out our hands
interlocked and then spread
We see that we are
something quite different
than gemstone and plants
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem