All journeys lie
traceless in the grave
effort spilled into
chasms of the past
spilled into wishful
thinking wells of intent:
pursuing tracks of bird-flight
in the wind
searching for a white ship’s
traces in the swell
gazing at a candle
burning in its darkness.
Know
the dust lying
restless in your hand
is all you have
and have to understand.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem