Interlude
The crescent Moon is as bright as a master
samurai's sword. It has already sliced
the clouds from the sky, and they tumbled
haphazardly below the horizon. The sky
is empty, only its dark blue color attests
to its existence. But its grandeur extends
for one thousand feet across the rocky terrain,
a blue cushion punctured by gray knives.
The air that bleeds invisibly rises to sustain us.
Nothing is left to disturb the scene's calm,
unless my roiling thoughts might cause such harm.
I declare an interlude, a respite from effort,
even the effort to be silent. L E T I T B E
My Will I suspend. It has caused enough turmoil
to no good end. My thoughts I abandon because
their task finished, I move on to a different
cognition: They created this Moment with the help
of Beautiful Language. It is enough... Let Be.
Assume the posture of statues, become frozen music for a while.
Hey, Daniel! The way I relate to this poem centers on Nothing is left to disturb the scene’s calm, unless my roiling thoughts might cause such harm. Roiling thoughts—this gets it very well. And your mention of the effort to be silent—this also I relate to. Interestingly, sitting and just trying to enjoy the quiet a few monings ago, some words came, and they were the start of my newest poem. -Glen
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Immediately on the work of translating it hoping to see my translation sounding equally great in my language which I can not easily presume before seeing it in the text.