the Woodcarver works
in the morning stillness,
with chisel and blade
and an eye for intimate detail...
sunlight sifts through the windows,
time caught, a butterfly in the hand
that's careful not to close...
no extravagant movements...
nothing left undone...
life, a bare bulb, almost
too hot to touch...
the hands of the spirit tell all...
with a gentle blade,
sharp as death, yet allowing...
He unveils your heart
in the stillness of an empty room.
the Woodcarver works...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
simple and meaningful life.... beautiful.