Translated by Gordon T. Osing
Sorry the food doesnít get to the leaf at the pondísthat challenge your blueprintsí rectangles? What about this?
edge, still, you accept the homage due the beauties
at the center, being the center, leaf battlements and all,
reprising the regimens like an old regime. On the edge,
Iím nowhere in particular, a smoke-signal in a sandstorm,
a border legend, a plotless detail in the weeds of history.
Please donít make an imperial scene, or shout
anthems to the down-pours; donít pretend, with the breezes,
to grant us our ditties. Have you ever noted a marginal leaf,
observed the veins converging like noisy streets,
Beneath the solemn appearances of the sacred blooms,
under water, roots grow together, new leaves furl in the heart.
Beneath the windsí quarrels, a hidden song needs other listening.
View Work in Original Language