I do not even read the newspaper,
I sigh in the lounge to overwhelm with fun,
Pins and more pins blow their odd ends,
The headlines seem to shrink before the trees.
Paper then sings aloud, lacking leaves of sentences,
These strung words beam on those who listen,
Rejoicing is for the cathedral,
Learning the hurt will undo the world.
I do not end the books with regret,
Two to three days in unison with the sea
I see the worldly waves, the astonishing spells
Of bad typhoons, the best storm expires.
These books perform no play,
But the actor can enter them,
To see the sea and all its residue.
My writing is of the reading,
The reading of words is understanding time.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem