Perched on a tree high
wave,
a moon was talking long
to me.
A live-in partenership
was in vogue. We always
loved each other breasts apart.
The weather was changing.
A plane load of tears would
disappear without a trace.
From somewhere a benign
lump explodes, making night,
a brilliant dream of
sleeping sky.
The hare jumps on the moon,
to snatch away the ambulatory
age, browsing around the death.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem