The moon did not become the sun.
It just fell on the desert
in great sheets, reams
of silver handmade by you.
The night is your cottage industry now,
the day is your brisk emporium.
The world is full of paper.
Write to me.
(The Half-Inch Himalayas, 1987)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem