I winged with the doves
in my unbounded boyhood.
Those rainbows and the contrails
still stay in the soul.
I sweated several times
but that never lost me sleep.
Now anxieties sprout
in the sweat.
I lose me
in the parching forebodings.
Conditioned by the symptoms,
both heard and read,
I die again,
of heart attack this time.
I remember
a swarm of fireflies
decorating my dark spring.
My midlife fruits
(flowered in the torrid weather)
have ripened.
I glimpse an infinite emptiness
in the waning light.
Even the dreams transform
strangely,
sometimes with the presence
of the departed.
Something somewhere
will remain on nothing.
First published in The Literary Hatchet
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem