The land has many spirits.
They see us; they know us,
better than we know ourselves.
If I see myself through the eyes of Earth,
I will lie still, and spend my last sigh
as a wind drifting through white pines.
In this early morning, when sleep hovers
like so much smoke in corners of my rooms,
dreams are left to stir and breathe in my hands.
I choose the dreams I will keep today.
I dream to see myself, know myself as
polished seeds, moist and fertile in the land.
I am laughter breaking brittle in yellow sunlight,
a slow tongue kiss on the open mouth of love.
I am warm tears to wash away dusts of memory.
When sleep comes to rest heavy on my eyelids,
and the last wind dies silent in old trees,
I dream to touch the face of God, and he smiles.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem