in memory of enrique linh
Dots of the earth
scattered beneath me . . . .
what has become of the children we were?
Everyone’s ready for war except me . . .
traveling the distance of mind on the earth . . . .
sealed in the cell
of a glass honeycomb
of words . . . .
notice the mixtures and pictures
and rainstorms that form in the paints
or the sky . . . .
the world of poems . . .
a musical world . . .
and that is the old wheel - the symbol of life.
we were ourselves . . . .
blindly we stared at loneliness as if it was a vase . . .
I precisely explored the feel, the taste of death . . .
bringing it up to my lips
thrashing into its morbid waves . . .
I’m talking about cypress
trees on the cliffs . . .
for a while the young women would talk,
and the poet would stay, without her . . .
sadness, my darling,
sanity from anguish and sadness . . .
a centuries passes . . .
the poet continues his work . . . .
But nothing is real enough for a ghost.
Part of me is that boy who falls down on his knees . . .
peace . . . struggling to shatter itself -
sealed in a cell - dust for a fresh gust of wind.