Silence was so loud―
a pain ago, would you
resume me now,
between a scion and stock.
The sap had dried up.
A tiny human inside a pen
draws the borders
of bleeding lacerations.
Black mouths,
confront the grizzled gods.
I want them now
in water.
Suicide of a fig tree was
evident. It had eaten its
own figs. No leaves
were left now.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A scorpion carries death at its furthest reaches, uplifted as if special. An armored posture in a barren land. Sand. That's all there is. Shifting. And ships that crest and descend. Crest and descend. Heading for the far shore. The point above the scorpion's head assumes a direction forward.