The black of the night sky adores the paralysis of my
eyes. Like a mirror told me birds cannot reach where
there are no walls; Like i sometimes look for mushrooms
so i can be the thread that goes through the needle.
But in tall grass, where light is so heavy i finally forget
to wake. It is just a matter of time before we realize the sky
is just ponds of sleeping planets, with no desire to stay
concealed. Like the way someone grows old for you on
the fire escape, or in the safety deposit box of sleep: Like
the way thorns set the table for the rose, because its color
will never wear out the scabbard of its scent. It will always
remind me of where we dreamt together, and how my eyes
had better get going before your hand approaches, and
the four seasons start believing the world is getting smaller.
The world is a cobweb folding up the petals of a flower,
because the spider cares little about the stories of color
or the fact that we dreamt together without ever saying goodbye.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem