Facing the music
of intrigues, the cuckoo
is perturbed.
Very formal, very gentle.
There was not enough time
to prove that you were―
not god.
The snow fence was broken.
Drifters tend to winter
the counting of old coins. Ruins
become beautiful. A deep
ocean invites for a solo dive.
I open my Gita and read the
dilemma of the Sun.
All the facts are rigged.
Nobody was going to sink
the lids in tears.
A moon-blind song bird
wants to reach
his home.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Parallel lines are an inference. They lead the mind like money does. Shoulder to shoulder the dead fish ascend toward a heaven terraced for agriculture in the clouds. Thieves cut at the laws with machetes made of stone. Made in a time of transition.