Flying through time like clouds of horizon,
Overwhelming questions against the sky;
Muttering retreats until the intent was gone,
Seeing Michelangelo like you and I…
The lingering night with a sudden leap,
Evenings at window-pains those come and go;
Tongue on streets that is falling asleep,
Curling up like smoke or an afterglow.
The room is full of corners softening out,
Filling up with shadows draining the light;
Nobody now is going there about,
Half-deserted meanings of what's wrong or right.
Tedious argument that every thought follows,
Dry air of the palpable obscure swallows.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem