Sometimes she forgets
she is painfully the same
as stagnant water,
hollow ditches,
foolishly imagines
she has the right to exist.
Forgive
a photo portrait's listless rage,
whose longing for movement
melts in her paper eyes.
Forgive
this woman whose casket is washed over
by a flowing red moon,
she whose body's thousand-year sleep
is perturbed by the night's stormy scent.
Forgive
this woman who's crumbling inside,
but whose eyelids tingle still with dreams of light,
whose useless hair still quivers hopelessly,
infiltrated by love's breath.
People of the land of plain joys,
you who have opened your windows to the rain,
forgive her,
forgive because she is bewitched,
because your lives' fertile roots
burrow into her exiled soil and pound
with envy's rod her naïve heart,
until it swells.
No comments:
Post a Comment