Maybe we were once stranded here
on the slopes of these mountains
between the white peaks and the low land

We certainly came up with words
to tell that story
and we went into the world

with that answer to the question
Where do we come from?
From the belly of the boat

as the image of our Mother
Earth, who is born where she is
in the lap of heaven

above the Holy Mountains
which kiss eternity
on the border of our existence

We move on and give names
to the world we discover
Time and space embrace us

Lilith was just like him -
from the clay, not as docile
as me; she left him

She prefers to roam
the world, seducing
men in the evening and robbing

families of their babies
so say the malicious tongues
that blacken everyone

who does not fit in their rules
It's true that she lives in trees
like a snake, I saw her once

at least, I think it was she
who praised me for my brain
and showed me the ripe fruits

With Adam I got two children
rib from his ribs, blood of my blood
The third was later made up

by the false tongues
that whitewash everything
that does not fit in their rules

The grand narratives

didn't really happen that way --


they are lies, true lies.

myself urges to understand
with no capacity to bear despair
i try to rest somewhere
between the thoughts
i am unable to sense sweet words:
a full well illusion

All stories are true,

somewhere in the world, and here --


they may happen too.

the pen is not mighty
the lily is not pure

and blood is not vengeful nor beautiful
it is just red

but i like stories


that white shirt you once wore
now yellow with use
that sweater you've had for years
adorned with the patches
of accidents gone by
that scar on your back
from when you fell off a swing
those lines by your lips
the remnant of a smile
and a smile and a smile

I like stories
i love reading yours

there are rabbits on my moon
divinity in my incense
my oaks stand mighty
my sun rides a chariot


park benches donated in memory
hasty scribbles on classroom benches
superstitions about crows and cows
love stories to make word games

i come from a world of stories
where the people are made
of matter and molecule
of memory and metaphor

i like stories
and this one's my favourite

In the allure of this thin air
Streetlights tell stories
Of snowflakes and rain drops waltzing
You put out your hand
Threads of your heart
Fall into place like hourglass sand
Hoping to catch some remnants of time
But on these darkest nights
Where dawn seems to have faded
Into the midnight sky
We count snowflakes
As if counting sheep
Falling asleep to the sound
Of the beating hearts on our sleeves

(a poem in 2 Senryus)

We carefully choose
bits of our lives that we then
weave into stories.

Like birds building nests,
making the safe places that
keep and define us.