LET'S stop by, just take off the tired helmet, and
Put a weary suitcase, year and year in the age line,

Then we stand up at the height of the tower,
"That," I said, "a ***** cloud, will there's a mud rain,"
you shook your head and stared on the motor lock.

"Chevolution, chevolution," I heard

Like that word you hissed over and over again.

You reach for the handlebars of the motorbike,
slamming in the direction.

Which far refuse comfortable cage and shady wells.

I plucked a banyan branch, for a pointer to
read again, a Book that we can never finish ...

The air is lagging after you step on the gas,
Drove in the far direction, I knew it was perfume,

A man who leaves no trace, except
Spilled coffee on the tablecloth, and dried cauliflower.

JUNE hid from me, on a forgotten calendar sheet on the kitchen wall. In vain, I shied away from the dust. Dust did not care about June on that calendar I'd never had.

Me and June, almost did not know each other again. Me and dust still greet each other just as a matter of praise. Dust and June as usual, still deceiving each other, yellowing on the paper.

MY HOUSE is Your home. Your house is my home. Now, if I'm going in, I do not have to pry Your window anymore.

But, last night I tried to steal again in my own home. Silently sneak into Your heart, and hope You catch me.

I am a leaf and you are a voracious caterpillar. I'm gone, when you turn into a butterfly, develop the color of your wings.

I'm late night and you're polite dew. I was not there when on the leaf, morning and the sun brilliant you.

THE remembrance upon you is a ****, I pluck it, then you grow again with the patience of time. With perseverance you endure, to me who can not stand it.

The memory upon you is the spider's thread, the never-ending nest, knitting itself, I'm trapped in it, helplessly, can not be free, and can never be cleared clearly.

I want you to simplify me with your love. Like the gratitude of paddy field to rain, with which it grew rice.

I want you to simplify me with your love. Like the prayer said by grass for the soil, which gave it life and in turn, enlivens.

I want you to simplify me with your love. Like works of the sun: rising-setting, giving names to morning, noon, eve and night.

ARE those love poems that do not mention my name?

I often get lost there. Surprised at a word I never knew, what they wanted to say to me.

I often tripped over there. Walking in complicated stanzas, which I did not know was going to take me anywhere.

But I feel at home there. As if hiding from many sounds, which for years forced me to deafen myself.

Ah, what a dictionary you are. How narrow is my tongue. I wonder if those poems you wrote for me?

MAYBE on the lips? Because there I like to interpret bitterness.

Or on the arm? A pair that is not long enough, but enough
to always embrace, dim, nervous.

Or on the neck? The circular ladder, like a rubber tree, and
I was a tapper who could not bring heart to wound there.

Or on the forehead? A thin line of hair, always silent.

"Ah, do not have much guessing," you say, "let me read it,
The old verses of poetry, which I have always kept secret ...

I do not want to be your metaphor, said rain to my tears
Then cry me with the sky, so you can no longer
Separating: between gloomy weather and unstoppable sadness

I do not want to be your metaphor, said the flower to my love
Then I put on the worst clothes and I became your gardener,
So you do not realize: what you picked every morning

My love is saltiness in your sea. The sun thinks he can vaporize me from you, making me a cloud in an unfamiliar sky. He was wrong, but let me do it, I do not want to blame him.

My love is the nutrient element fused in your garden's soil. The sun thinks only he who grows you and blossoms your flowers. He was wrong, but I will not blame him.