Will I know you―
by unknowing myself in bleak―
moments of giving
wings to you?
Raising your legacy; losing
my words, I block
a masterstroke. Something
was wrong. I was walking alone.
Disrobing a covered
statue, the anguish of
incorrectness hangs.
Enduring a song of―
drums, calling the sun from clouds
for a wounded earth.
What was truth
in jungle of beasts? Any
humming left on the lips of trees?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
When I wake I put my dreams in a box under the bed. A cardboard box that once held new shoes. I saved the tissue for the more delicate dreams. The dreams that you comb from hair after a cold shower on a fall day when the frost is on the lawn.