I haven't seen clouds lately, i wonder what must
be wrong. But not knowing where to go to sit
face to face with the sun, even if i am all alone
in Heaven with a wish to give a kiss to Hell; like
a couple of angels ready to listen to what i want
to talk about. So i just use the grass as a pillow
and dream about no more tears or sighs, or
no time when i am too sad to see your soul.
Maybe the trees change their colors more than
my thoughts. Maybe because they get their clothes
wet, and, my dear, i am used to sleeping there.
Passing out because i get so drunk i am unable
to be near God. I am thinking you do not cry
cause precious life is coming to an end. The mirror
i own i have held in my hands, and i have let it fly
away as now i am my own bird and for me,
getting wet is where my mother might say. She
is suffering seriously from drinking a cup of my tears.
Because she just might know I am as close to you,
as i was when i was inside her; intermittenly dripping
my tears inside her, and i know she must have felt the pain.
She must have felt helpless as this is the way of the world.
This is the way living things beg of the gods in the end,
this is way parents prohibit and protect the way i would
like to spend my afterlife. Writing poems in an infant's grave,
and yearning that the girl with your wings will go unharmed.
She will have stories on me smelling of the spell of love.
She will bring all the money from the banks of the rivers,
and drink nothing but memories. Nothing but the brown earth,
where i had nowhere to sleep, and less place to dream
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem